


221Behave - 31 Day OTP Challenge

by NerdyMind



Series: 221Behave [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Angst, Crack, Danger, Domestic Fluff, Drunk John, Drunk Sherlock, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Hate Crimes, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Honeymoon, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Mystrade, John is a Very Good Doctor, Kidnapping, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Parentlock, Threats of Violence, Weddings, and yet here you are, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:42:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 48,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdyMind/pseuds/NerdyMind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This casefic follows Sherlock and John as they grow from friends to lovers with the help of supportive and nosy friends.  They have sexy times.  They have really tough bad times.  But they come out on top with a new family and a happy future.</p><p>Loosely inspired by the 30 Day OTP Challenge, some prompts were altered, rearranged or ignored to better suit the story. </p><p>Ch 14, 16, 19, 27 and 31 contain nsfw smut if you are attempting to read somewhere public <3<br/>The last 5 chapters are standalone one shots set in the same universe as the casefic and can be read alone or as a continuation.</p><p>------------<br/>This is my first fanfic attempt.  It has not been beta'd or Brittpicked.  I have only the writing suggestions of Spock Lite and grammar lessons from Stephen Fry to guide me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Holding Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is an actual five year old. Sherlock doesn't particularly mind.

“John stop it,” Sherlock warned swatting the intrusion from his peripheral. He leaned forward, inspecting the pavement. Loose stones near the rubbish bins. Discarded tools, dry, no rust. They had been jostled, not abandoned. Sherlock lifted the small rake with a gloved hand, turning it into the light. He had caught a fleck of something. Trying to find it again in the dim moonlight was proving aggravating.

“A hand please?,” he asked, palm outstretched for the magnifier he had asked his helpful doctor to hold earlier. John’s stifled giggle was the only warning before Sherlock jerked back, narrowly avoiding another brush of the cold digits across his cheek. His sudden movement and flailing arm knocked the pale appendage across the crime scene. Skidding to a halt at Lestrade’s angrily tapping feet, the dismembered hand tangled in his laces.

Both men burst into giggles at the sight.

“Well you did ask for a hand Sherlock.”

“John behave!” he hissed.

The doctor’s face burned crimson as he lowered his eyes. “Sorry Sherlock.” He tore his eyes from Lestrade’s angry detangling of bootlaces before another fit of laughter could take over. Sherlock watched the smaller man sulk, avoiding his eyes as he handed over the magnifier.

He paused to let their fingers brush for a brief moment before whispering for John’s ears only, “I wonder if the Inspector could use a hand after all” and nodded towards the end of the driveway where Lestrade was now angrily hopping about on one foot in an attempt to simply kick away the offending grasp.

John’s face lit up as he fought back another peel of laughter. Swatting Sherlock’s curls he walked to lean against the brick of the garage until his giggles subsided.

Sherlock found the blue fleck that had evaded him earlier. Metallic, not paint, he brushed gently at the spot and watched as dry flakes chipped away. “Stone dust. Possibly the remnants of.. ah!”

“Found something?” Lestrade and John asked in unison.

“Bag that hand up Inspector and dust it for prints, aside from John’s of course,” he shot a reassuring smile towards his flatmate before John’s guilty pout had time to settle in. “I believe our killer may have lost it in their getaway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	2. Cuddling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys find themselves in a tiny display cabinet while out searching for clues. Forced snuggles ensue.

Three days spent in the Yard’s lab had revealed a match to the blue dust on the late Helen Triste’s gardening rake. Fire opal, a violet hued variety rare in the UK but unfortunately for the case, a trendy gem at the moment. Thankfully, an observant genius detective caught the smattering of rose gold filings on the victim’s neck as well as the molded display hand. The doctor’s childish behavior may have ruined any chance for fingerprints and left him in a full body sulk for two days after Lestrade’s chastising, but Sherlock’s news that there were only two jewelers currently selling fire opal designs in rose gold settings perked his flatmate back to tolerable levels of companionship in no time.

“The murder weapon was a rose gold chain necklace, 18-16 gauge wire, set with one or more violet fire opal stones.” the detective declared. “I believe our killer still has it.”

“The necklace was probably only used as a last minute choice.” Anderson interrupted. “You know, a crime of passion? It was most likely discarded Sherlock!” He was dismissed with a bored hand.

After a lengthy sigh and a warning glance from John, Sherlock set in explaining things to the others. “Markings on the victim’s arms and hands suggest she did not know her attacker. Crimes of passion usually require passion as a prerequisite hence sentiment, hence familiarity. She is widowed and her only living relative is a son currently serving in Bahrain. No known friends or close associates. She was strangled from behind but the angles of the scratches and cuts along her neck suggest her attacker was smaller and shorter. One does not normally attack a stranger who can physically defeat them in basic hand to hand. No, this murder was premeditated but you would already know that if you were any good at your job.”

“Behave.” John whispered low in warning.

“So!” Sherlock jumped, dancing in excitement to the DIs laptop. “Here we have the two locations which supply and sell what we are looking for. Find the murder weapon, find the murderer.” While Lestrade took a team to stake out the first location, John and Sherlock were left to keep watch over the second.

\-------------

“Hmmm,” Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. He examined the rose gold pieces on display in the small shop window but none of the chains looked sturdy enough to be used as a garotte. He wondered briefly if the murderer was a patron or owner before hearing his flatmate’s shuffling behind him.

“See anything John?” the detective asked as blue eyes peered up at him behind the glass case. John held up a plastic display hand covered in rings and wriggled his eyebrows at Sherlock in an easy tease. Forgetting the stealth part of breaking and entering, Sherlock let loose a loud peel of manly giggles. Their laughter dissolved into aggravated sighs as nothing of value turned up from the search. Perhaps the police were having better luck at their shop. 

Noise in the back room caused both men to still. John nodded to an empty display cabinet backing slowly towards it, hand hovering near the Sig in his back. Sherlock winced as the cabinet hinges creaked. They froze for seconds. Minutes. A quiet cough from the backroom reassuring them into further hiding.

The space was cramped, designed for boxes of uncut stones and wire, not two grown men.  
Sherlock was all elbows and knees tucked uncomfortably beneath his Belstaff. His breath moist on John’s collar and fogging up the small pane of glass, distorting their view of the shop.

“Sherlock, can you please stop moving? and breathing.” John pleaded. Face cramped against the window of the display cabinet. He couldn’t understand why they both had to crawl into the small space, even if time had been the prime factor. But it was hard to tell someone to bugger off and find their own hiding place when you were trying to be quiet. The lanky detective wriggled behind him unwinding his arms to pull John into his coat and away from the door frame.

“s’better,” the doctor admitted in a hushed whisper. “but we’re still fogging up the glass.”

“Mmm worried people might talk John?” Sherlock reached up with one lithe finger and wrote “N O T S N O G G I N G” on the glass in reverse. “There. Now relax and be quiet.” 

A gentle whooshing from the back office reached their ears. “Torch,” Sherlock whispered to John. “I imagine someone is getting some late night work done.” The gentle clink of wire and pliers confirmed his suspicion. “We will have to wait for them to leave as the back exit is the only door not armed.” The doctor nodded in understanding and leaned back into his flatmate, easing the pressure on his legs. 

“Sherlock,” John whispered. “Tell me a story. Anything.”

“Hmmm…” Sherlock started. “How about I tell you why I tease Mycroft about cake so much?”

“Mmm, sure.” John agreed happily, closing his eyes. The detective’s voice was relaxing. His words so descriptive the shorter man could practically taste the birthday cake and see young Sherlock’s curls bouncing in laughter. He drifted off mid chuckle as his flatmate reached the end of the story.

\-----

John awoke 6 hours later in his own bed, wrapped in Sherlock’s coat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  CAKE STORY NOW AVAILABLE >> [Little Slice of Heaven](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1135503)


	3. Watching a Movie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys curl up in front of riveting surveillance footage and John does something naughty.

Before John’s mind could take in his surroundings, Sherlock swept into his room two mugs of coffee in hand and an eager grin plastered across his face.

“Morning,” the sleepy doctor rasped. “New lead?”

“Perhaps,” the detective replied. “But first, coffee, shower and change. I’ll explain more on the way to the Yard.” Without waiting for a reply, he placed John’s mug on the nightstand and swirled out of the room a bundle of excited energy.

Moments later John emerged freshly showered and newly jumpered carrying Sherlock’s coat folded across his arm. He looked Sherlock over, checking for signs of rest and sleep to make sure his mad flatmate hadn’t stayed up all night. Satisfied to see fresh clothes and discarded pillows on the couch, John finished his coffee and placed his mug in the sink. “Thanks” he said shyly, handing the coat back to its owner as they headed downstairs.

In the taxi, John watched his flatmate twitching next to him. The detective flipped his phone over and over as he stared at the blur of passing Londoners. A million questions were pounding through the doctor’s mind, but he could not seem to get any beyond his throat. Sherlock, John realized, was waiting for him to say something so he cleared his throat and arched a curious eyebrow when silver eyes flickered to his face. “You were going to explain?”

“Surveillance tapes.” Sherlock said plainly trying on his best disinterested mask.

“Lestrade’s team?”

“No.” Sherlock corrected. John could feel the man inhale, preparing himself for the oncoming tirade. “The police team proved incompetent and useless as usual. No, after you fell asleep, our mystery worker wandered to the front of the shop. After some persuasion and my flashing of Lestrade’s badge he revealed himself to be the owner, Mr. Jacobs and we talked for approximately twenty minutes. The suspected murder weapon was from his shop but when he went to retrieve it for evidence, the case was empty.”

“Stolen by our murderer?”

“Most likely. Mr. Jacobs and his son are the only two who work the shop so it wasn’t an employee. He gave us tapes for every night since the necklace was delivered so we have about 3 weeks of footage to comb through. Lestrade passed the task to us as he was called away to another case this morning.”

John took in the task before them before wandering back to last night’s activities and the position he awoke in. “Why didn’t you wake me?” he finally asked.

Sherlock’s face locked up and his eyes drifted back to the window. “You hadn’t slept in three days John. My body may be conditioned for such abuse but yours is not. Besides, I needed you well rested,” Sherlock spoke to the blurred crowds passing by. “...for the case” he added as an afterthought. They rode the rest of the way in mutual silence.

\---------

After a bit of a standoff with Dimmock as he confirmed Sherlock’s “right to be here” with DI Lestrade, the consulting detective and his doctor were escorted to a viewing room. A small folding table was stacked precariously with tapes. The tower threatening to topple a tiny two cup coffee maker and a small stack of paper cups.

Sherlock draped his coat and scarf across the nearest armchair and set about sorting the tapes by date and hour while John rearranged the chairs and tables around the tele.

“Thank you,” John called over his shoulder to Dimmock who stood hovering in the door frame. “I will let you know if we need anything else.” Sherlock huffed across the room. “Waiting for a tip Inspector?”

“Can you please behave?” the doctor asked as a red-faced DI pointedly slammed the door.

“We will start with the day of the murder and work our way backwards,” Sherlock explained, ignoring the chiding. “The murder was recent so it is logical that the weapon was stolen more recently.”

He handed the tape to John and walked past him to dim the lights and settle in the larger chair along the back wall. Feet tucked beneath his thighs, fingers steepled beneath his jaw, Sherlock’s face in full concentration as John hit ‘Play’.

“There,” Sherlock pointed. “That small black case in the back right of the shelf. That is where the necklace was stored when not on display.” John nodded and glued his eyes back to the screen attempting to get comfortable in his cheap vinyl chair.

The first tape proved fruitless. “Coffee?” John asked when Sherlock let loose a yawn. His curls bounced in a vigorous head shake as the detective made a disgusted frown at the tiny machine. “I know it’s not the best but we’re going to be here awhile. I’ll order takeout later.”

Sherlock smiled and settled back into the chair. “No thank you, John, I am fine for n--” the last syllable cut off in a new yawn.

Three tapes in John heard the cracking of bones behind him and tilted his head to capture Sherlock in his peripheral. The detective had rearranged himself across the chair to stretch out and ease his limbs. His hand paused before his mouth stifling a new wave of yawns.

“Sherlock, are you sure you don’t want anything?” John asked, turning fully to view his flatmate. In the dim light and reflecting harsh glow from the TV, John finally noticed dark circles. Watery eyes. The stupid git hadn’t slept after all. Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to the TV, ignoring John’s questioning look.

John tried to maintain focus on the back shelf and the immobile black case but his eyes kept wandering to the pile of tapes on the table. If there was a tape from last night, he was quite interested in viewing it. But not being the clever mind in this partnership, he could not construct a reason to play it. He could feign a mix up and ‘accidentally’ play it. But the date is stamped clearly on the screen and his mad detective had already sorted the tapes so there was no reason they should be mixed up. He crossed his arms in annoyance and stared back at the stupid shelf with the stupid black box.

As the fifth tape ended, John checked his watch. Half past noon. “Takeaway lunch Sherlock? What do you want, Chinese?” When no reply came, he turned to find his flatmate curled up into a tight ball, asleep in his chair.

Not wanting to wake the detective from a rare nap, John walked over to the folding chair by the door and picked up their coats. He tucked the Belstaff over Sherlock’s shoulders and made to exit the room but stopped short. Watching the calm face of a man so usually overflowing with energy, John thought he understood Sherlock’s actions the night before. It had become an instinct between them to care for one another.

A smile beamed across John’s face as he hatched an idea. Silently making his way to the end of the pile of tapes he found the latest one and slipped it into the player. The devious doctor curled back into his chair with a fresh cup of coffee and excitement in his bones.

“Now, Sherlock, let’s see what you were up to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	4. Kissing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John sees something he wasn't supposed to and responds in kind.

The tape was business as usual as John fast forwarded to the evening. He watched a blur of patrons buzzing in and out of the store. Rich old ladies fawning over new window baubles. Bright faced couples looking at rings. Desperate men with guilt in their slumped posture browsing the clearance section. The outside lights sprung up and he watched Mr. Jacobs and his son, Matthew, close up shop. Slowing the tape to play normal speed he watched the empty shop front in anticipation.

After a few minutes, Sherlock’s lean shadow danced in from the back room followed closely by John’s. They shifted about the store looking for a sturdy rose gold necklace they would not find. John watched his screen duplicate freeze. Giggled as both flatmates squeezed into a too small display cabinet.

“Damn.” John huffed. He hadn’t realized how much he wanted to see _inside_ the cabinet. He leaned forward squinting to make out his own pained reflection smushed against the tiny window. Caught the fogging of the small glass pane and shortly afterwards a smug detective’s message scrawled in the vapors. And then nothing. He remembered bits of Sherlock’s story, most of it lost to sleep unfortunately. Gooseflesh pricked up John’s neck as he remembered his flatmate’s rough voice rumbling through his frame. The soft whisper of Sherlock’s breath on his ear as he talked. John could still feel the lanky genius enveloped around him. His chest flush against the doctor’s back all warm and inviting. _Cradled to sleep in a closet with a proper bedtime story_ , John thought. His face flushed crimson at the memory.

Staring at the tiny cabinet window John waited in anticipation as hours passed. He watched the message fade away and the glass clear as the temperature settled. Only Sherlock would know exactly what happened in that box after all. The doctor glanced over at the sleeping form of his detective wondering for the hundredth time what was going on in his head. Had he really held a sleeping John for hours? Or had he simply continued talking, unaware that the smaller man had been unresponsive? It wouldn’t be the first time the world’s most observant man had prattled on to an empty room only to chide John days later for missing something he had said.

Finally a shadow passed the small window and Sherlock’s hand sprawled across the glass pushing the door open. On screen his flatmate had him propped up with a stiff arm around his waist, still held close to his side as they slowly emerged. Sherlock’s cautious movements seemed more for John’s sake than worry or caution over the back room worker. Slowly, he eased John into a small chair by the door and whipped his coat off to drape about the sleeping doctor’s shoulders.

John watched screen Sherlock smiling down at him and couldn’t help but reflect the smile and glance over at his own sleepy bundle. Moments like this John allowed his mind to wander into possible futures and alternate timelines where a certain "married to his work" detective might have room for other plans.

Catching movement from the screen, his eyes flicked back to see Sherlock lean down and kiss screen John softly on the crown of his head. Then another peck on his forehead and a chaste brush of lips on his cheek before the detective slumped down beside him on the floor, head resting on the doctor’s knee. The moment was frozen as John’s heart hammered in his chest. His hands unconsciously flew to his hair and down his face seeking some trace of the missed moment.

 _Sherlock had kissed him_. Indirectly of course, but it was an action so out of character, John was tempted to wake the man and demand answers. He paused the tape properly as another shadow emerged from the back room and leaped from his chair nearly toppling the forgotten cup of coffee.

John closed the space between them and settled next to Sherlock, sitting on the arm of his sleeping detective’s chair. Deciding it was best not to wake him, John let one hand card softly through Sherlock’s curls. Something he had only done when the man was injured or needed help washing poorly managed experiments from his hair. It was a guilty pleasure to enjoy such things now without purpose. Sherlock nuzzled unconscious into the touch and John’s smile broadened in resolve. Leaning forward he allowed himself to steal a quick kiss from the detective’s forehead then forced himself away before he did anything further.

\--------------

When Sherlock roused from sleep a few hours later John was attentively watching store footage and taking notes in the detective’s moleskin. Cold takeout was on the back table. He glanced at the clock and groaned causing the doctor’s head to whip around.

“Ah Sherlock I was just about to wake you.” John smiled. Sherlock noticed something off in his flatmate’s eyes but dismissed it as sleep deprivation. “There is takeaway if you’re hungry, bottle of water if you like. I found our thief, texted Lestrade and have been taking notes for you.” The last sentence was followed by John holding up the notebook.

“Brilliant John. Fantastic.” Sherlock beamed, leaping from his seat to snatch the moleskin from John’s fingers and rewind the tape. He took a bottle of water and settled on the arm of his doctor’s chair to watch the burglary unfold.

“So it _was_ a woman.” Sherlock observed as a small dark haired young lady tip toed into frame. “5’2” petite athletic build. Posture suggests she is more accustomed to working in heels not the flats she’s currently wearing. Hair and nails suggest a business centered on face to face interactions. Ah. She went straight to the case, John.”

“Yes, I wrote that down for you.” John replied a bit huffily. “Assume that means she had been there before?”

“Oh, oh, brilliant yes!” Sherlock leaped up pausing the tape. “How long til Lestrade gets back?”

“Minutes Sherlock, what is it?”

“We’ve got her,” Sherlock answered without further explanation. John sighed and resigned himself to waiting. Sometimes that was all you could do with Sherlock. Wait.

John leaned into the chair taking in Sherlock’s warmth beside him. His eyes traced along his flatmate's neck and around his throat as the taller man swallowed down a bottle of water in thirsty desperation. Rapt with joy as Sherlock finally flipped through the notes he had diligently scrawled for the man. For now, he was happy to be the one to sit back and simply observe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	5. Date Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since stakeouts and takeouts are their norm, the boys raise the stakes with a car trip and proper sit down dinner just this once.  
> I may have "accidentally" broken a heater to get them naked.

“There was another one” Sherlock said as Lestrade entered the viewing room.

“How did - nevermind. Yes Sherlock. Ipswich this time, bit of a drive or I’d have been back sooner. Middle age well off female vic again, just like the first. Killed at home. Strangulation.” Lestrade placed the new case file and photos on the table in front of John. “Now show me what you’ve got so we can catch this son of a bitch.”

John flicked through the new case file while Lestrade and Sherlock went over the surveillance footage, printed out photos of the suspect and exchanged pleased hmms and ahhs. He was content taking notes and collecting data quietly in the back. When Sherlock was in case mode it was best to just stay out of his path and let him work, unless you had something to contribute.

“Oh!” John gasped staring at the photo in his hand and holding up a small evidence bag. “She left the necklace behind this time.”

“Same one?” Sherlock perked up and skipped to the table to peer over John’s shoulder. “No, silver. Finer chain. It broke in three places during the struggle. I imagine she had no choice in leaving it behind as it was most likely discovered still embedded in the victim’s skin. Correct Inspector?”

“What’s that?” Lestrade looked up from the suspect’s blurry surveillance photo. “Yeah, gruesome one. Anderson’s new protege was damn near retching.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the prospect. “Who on earth would want to apprentice under that much stupidity?”

“Oi! Behave.” Lestrade laughed despite his words. “This one put up more of a fight. I expect you’ll want go see the scene after we’re done here. Address is in the file, Local PD knows to expect you two. I’ll get these photos around here and see if we can’t dig up a name for this face. Afternoon boys.” Lestrade nodded his goodbyes and winked at John with a knowing grin the doctor didn’t have time to process.

“Odd.” Sherlock commented. “Was he just.. flirting?” So it wasn’t just John’s imagination.

“Don’t think so. That’s his I-know-something-you-don’t-know smirk.” John corrected.

Sherlock scoffed at the notion that anyone in NSY could possibly know anything he didn’t. Scooping up his coat and scarf with the case file Sherlock held the doctor’s coat out to him. “Shall we?”

\-------

Lestrade had a car and driver waiting for them downstairs. After a brief stop at 221B for their overnight bags, the two hour drive to the coast town was a pleasant one passed in silence while both men read case notes and sifted through photos.

John took advantage of the distracted detective and stole sidelong glances to do a bit of deducing in his own mind. Sherlock had kissed him. Three times actually. And there were an increasing number of touches gone unchallenged. Even now their knees were glued together, balancing the case file folder between them and Sherlock made no effort to shift. John may not be the world’s only consulting detective, but he noticed lingering fingers, too long stares and increased smiling and laughter. If Sherlock was anyone else, John would swear he was flirting. But Sherlock was Sherlock. This could be a social experiment. It could be drugs. It could be boredom. Conclusion: more evidence needed.

“John?” Sherlock snapped John back to the present. “You’ve been staring at the same photo for twenty-three minutes now.”

“Oh. Uh. yeah. sorry. here.” Turning up his coat to hide a rising blush, John thrust the photo into Sherlock’s hand and shifted his gaze to the roadside.

“John, if there is something. That is, if you need me to listen. I am here.” The detective locked eyes with his doctor. Holding the stare of concern until John glanced down at the hands in his lap and rested his head on the cool glass of his window in resignation.

“It’s okay Sherlock. I’m just tired and hungry. I’ll be fine once we get settled in the hotel and have a proper dinner, yeah?” He plastered his brightest smile on and hoped the cracks would hold up for just another hour. Sherlock knew he was lying but dropped the subject. For now.

\-------

Hotel check in went smoothly but for the single bed which John actually was too tired to argue or care about and Sherlock never made a fuss about how many beds there would be for him to not sleep in. During most cases, Sherlock hardly slept and there were more important issues on hand. Neither man had really eaten the entire day. John too mentally drained to enjoy the takeaway he’d ordered and Sherlock sleeping through his. And it was with much fuss that the doctor was finally able to drag his petulant detective out to a proper sit down dinner.

“Sherlock,” John began, grabbing the detective’s coat cuff to gain his attention. “Thank you. You know I worry when you don’t eat, but I understand how annoying it is to delay you the satisfaction of rushing to the crime scene until morning. So, um, I just want you to know it is appreciated. When you listen.” He echoed Sherlock’s earlier words hoping the taller man would catch the deeper meaning in his gratitude. His responding smile confirmed as much.

Dinner passed by with limited conversation as both men were too famished to speak between bites. When dessert arrived, Sherlock waved his off and simply leaned back to watch John enjoy his tiramisu. Over coffee and the bill the flatmates exchanged easy chatter about their newest case. Sherlock bouncing theories off of John and the doctor genially slapping down the silliest and most far fetched while eagerly cheering on his detective’s more brilliant hypotheses.

The conversation followed them back to the hotel and in the elevator and down the hall.

“I’m just saying, Sherlock, there has to be a reason behind the jewelry used if not a motive. Of all the ridiculous things to use as a makeshift garrote. And according to all evidence neither woman actually owned the jewelry they were murdered with.”

“But John, if she is a proper sociopath, our killer need not motive nor reason.”

“If! That’s a big assumption this early in the case.”

“I never assume.”Sherlock frowned. He had solved cases in hours and this one was now pushing into day five. As if detecting the mood shift John added, “I know, it’s long past solution stage for your normal investigation time. But that’s no reason to rush. We’ll get a proper look in the morning.”

John sat on the foot of the bed removing shoes, socks and his jumper before he realized Sherlock was still standing frozen in uncertainty. He shifted over patting the space next to him, inviting. “I don’t bite Sherlock, come sit and remove your coat and shoes. Will you sleep tonight?”

Sherlock merely hmmed in response walked to stare out the window. If John knew any better, if Sherlock was anyone else, he would think the detective was worried about sharing a bed with him. But this was Sherlock, and John wasn’t one hundred percent on his mastery of Sherlockian body language so he used his words. “Sherlock, if you’re tired you can sleep here. I’ll sleep on the floor. Carpet can’t be any worse than the old RAF standard issue cots.”

He watched the detective’s shoulders slump in resignation. “Thank you, John.” Sherlock sat opposite him and began removing a pillow and the top duvet for the doctor.

\--------

John woke at 3am in a sticky sweat. The heater had malfunctioned overnight and their room was now pushing past tropical temperatures. Shedding his undershirt and trousers, he padded to the restroom for a splash of cool water. Glancing back to the bed the doctor's breath was punched from his lungs.

Sherlock was tangled in a mess of sweaty sheets and pale limbs. The sprawled detective had also stripped to his pants in an attempt to cool off and positively gleamed in the moonlight with sweat sheened skin. John forced his eyes back to the mirror and took in his reflection.  Blown pupils, flushed skin and racing pulse.  He jumped into the shower punishing his conspiring cock with the cold spray.  John stood beneath the icy stream muttering a steady litany of fucks until his heartbeat returned to normal.  These moments were taking longer and longer to will away.

Slipping back into his makeshift bed, John drifted off to an easy sleep with visions of lanky limbs and sweat slicked shadows teasing the edge of his vision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	6. Wearing Your Clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dysfunctional heater strikes again! Things get hot then cold then toasty.

 

Sherlock woke to the sound of running water and groaning pipes.  John was up.  3am.  The doctor must have been roused by the temperature change in the room just as he had earlier in the evening.  Sherlock leaned over the bed to see John’s little blanket nest crumpled on the floor.  _Stupid_. Sherlock thought.   _I know I should have given him the bed with his bad shoulder_.  But of course he would have argued and insisted.  Always being the nice doctor.  The cordial caretaker.  And Sherlock would have caved and taken the bed to appease John in the end anyway.  The concerned detective hoped John was finding release in a hot shower at least.

The thought of John under the spray, soaked and relaxed, overloaded Sherlock’s senses.  His mind flashed a kaleidoscope of John’s body from deductions, glimpses of flesh and the few times he had seen John in just a robe fresh from the... shower.  Sherlock groaned, digging the heels of his hands rough into his eyelids.

These stray thoughts and mental vacations were distracting him from the case and the detective hated it.  He froze as the water stopped, returning to his previous position to feign sleep.  In the rumpled duvet Sherlock had spied John’s discarded trousers and shirt.  There was no way he could function his way through a conversation if John walked out in just his pants.  Or a towel.  Or nothing.  He scrambled to collect the images cluttering his mind palace and neatly file them away behind a closed door.  Forcing it shut.  Heaving himself against it.  Crumpling in front of it, barricading the thoughts for just a moment longer.

Sherlock listened to John’s sigh.  The soft shift of a rough towel dry.  The shuffling feet as he redressed.  Hmm just pants after all.  The door opened slowly to not wake his flatmate.  Always the considerate doctor.  The anticipated wall of fresh steam never hit Sherlock.  Cold shower then.  _Interesting_.  John walked back to his spot on the floor.  Sherlock could hear the hurried pace and shifting of the duvet as his flatmate rolled to his side away from the bed.  Was John avoiding looking at him?  Ah.  He hadn’t even considered his own state of undress.  Or how it might affect certain doctors.  Or inspire cold showers.  That  _is_  interesting.

As he listened to John’s breathing steady to a deeper sleep, Sherlock slowly eased his back from the door in his mind.  He allowed himself to sift through the images spilling forth.  Played with constructing new ones.  The doctor standing in the door watching him.  His blue eyes blown black with lust.  Drinking in Sherlock’s skin.  John’s chest flushed pink in arousal.  His pants strained and  _Oh_.  Sherlock’s hand trailed down his chest to his own insistent cock.  He risked cracking one eye open a seam to check that his flatmate was not as equally skilled at faking sleep.

When the balled up doctor did not move, Sherlock let his eyes trace over the dip of John’s exposed neck.  Linger at the soft blonde hairs along his nape.  Down the curve of his spine to the soft swell of his arse peeking just above the covers.  A soft groan escaped his traitor mouth before he could choke it down.  His hands had similar ideas, palming himself through now damp silk.   _No. Bugger_.  He couldn’t risk this here in the open space where John could wake at any moment.  And damn if the thrill of being caught hadn’t just made him that much harder.

He eased himself into the restroom, taking one last lingering look to drink in every inch of available doctor flesh before closing and locking the door between them.  Sherlock was not as disciplined as his flatmate.  He turned the tap to an indulgent heat and let the overflowing room of naked John images flood his mind.  The simulacrum of his doctor standing in this very shower.  Running his hands over his own gooseflesh. Sherlock’s insistent strokes grew faster, squeezed harder.  He bit his lip as every fiber of his body tensed up. Swallowing John’s name in a whispered moan.  His mind palace drowned out in a flash of blinding white.  Sherlock slumped against the wall, riding the waves of pleasure until the increasingly cold water became unbearable.

He unlocked the door and emerged from the bathroom shivering.  The heat had finally given out or been turned off and the chill from outside was now seeping its tendrils into their room.  

Pulling on a fresh set of pants from his case Sherlock settled on the floor next to his sleeping doctor.  John was in deep REM but his body was prickling in the new chill.  Since some considerate doctors aren’t the only considerate flatmates, Sherlock shifted the duvet over John’s shoulders and tucked him into the warmth.  And if he let his fingers linger at John’s neck and brush through the sleeping man’s hair, well no one needed to know.  And if a soft kiss at his temple to inhale the scent of hotel shampoo was what it took to finally put Sherlock’s mind at ease and restore balance in his head, then no one needed to know that either.

\---------

When John awoke, Sherlock was hunched over his laptop in  _hang on_  “Sherlock, is that my jumper?”

“Morning and yes.  It was cold.  Heat went out and you had the only blanket in the room.” Sherlock explained in his dismissive tone.  “My coat is a bit stiff for sleeping in and despite your hideous taste in colors and pattern, your jumpers are rather... soft.”  The last syllable was punctuated with Sherlock’s cheek rubbing against the sleeve of his jumpered arm.

John took a moment to remember how to breathe.  The ludicrous domesticity of seeing the detective in his clothes, sipping at a mug of coffee, was too much for his groggy brain to process.  He rose from the floor, duvet slipping to his waist when John was smacked with the actual chill of the room.  “F-F-Fuck it is freezing in here!”  He jerked the duvet around his shoulders, as Sherlock arched an eyebrow and smirked.  Was that an  _I just told you it was cold you git_  smile or a  _thanks for the half naked peep show_  smile?  The curious doctor lingered his eyes along the curve of Sherlock’s lips before a new wave of shivers shook him loose from the reverie.

John snatched Sherlock’s coat from the chair behind him and draped it over himself and his makeshift duvet toga.  He shuffled across the room in his fabric burrito, working bloodflow through his aching limbs.  Sherlock had been busy it seemed.  The case notes and photos were tacked across the walls.  Notes and post its scattered about in the detective’s distinct scrawl.

“Any new theories today?”

“Not yet.  Have some coffee and warm up.  Heater is blown so there is no hot water for a proper shower.”  Sherlock gestured to the fresh pot of coffee in the corner.  “Once you’re dressed we can head to the crime scene.  Need more data.”

“That’s fine, I took one earlier anyw--” John cut himself off as the memory of last night wormed its way back into his mind.  Clearing his throat and shaking his head to clear the images, John redirected the subject.  “Sherlock I have extra jumpers packed if you’d like a clean one for today.  I wore that one yesterday.”

Sherlock hmmed for a moment in consideration. “No need John, this one is.. fine.  Thank you.”  John knew then he would only be half as useful today.  Pulling Sherlock’s coat tighter about his frame he indulged in a deep breath.  Drunk on the smell of Sherlock’s shampoo.  His cologne.  His soap.  The subtle mix of lab chemicals that always clung to his skin.  

Reluctantly giving up his cocoon of warmth to pull on fresh jeans a clean undershirt and a navy jumper, the doctor got dressed.  He draped Sherlock’s coat on the desk chair behind him and returned the duvet and pillow to their bed. Leaning over his flatmate’s shoulder, the doctor snatched a curious peek at his laptop.  He had stopped password protecting the thing after a year of wasted attempts at privacy.

“No leads from Lestrade yet, I presume.” John breathed across Sherlock’s ear seeing an empty inbox.  

“None,” Sherlock answered.  Turning slightly towards the doctor’s face before jumping up and snatching his coat off the chair.  “Shoes John.  I’ll get your coffee.  Let’s go!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	7. Roleplay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jumperlock 2: This Time it's Personal
> 
> John is up to something. Sherlock is trying very hard not to be up to something. Lestrade is the most up to something one can be. The roleplay mentioned here will be fleshed out in the next chapter, fear not!

“John.  John.   _John_.  Are you listening?”  Sherlock snapped vinyl gloves near the dazed doctor’s ear.  

“Fuck. What?  I’m listening.  You found some black fibers, possibly velvet from a jewelry bag or case.  Evidence of silver filings and something about weddings.”  Something indeed.  Watching Sherlock move about the crime scene in his jumper was ruining John’s concentration.  It was too familiar.  Too close.  That soft wool brushing against the lithe detective’s skin.  Imbuing its fibers with the scent of the man with every passing minute.  And Sherlock saying something about weddings and couples triggered romantic fantasy in John’s giddy subconscious.

“Yes, John.  I was prattling on about how we should get married.”

“W-what?” The doctor sputtered, terrified he had been daydreaming aloud.

“Oh do pay attention.  Sarcasm John.  The victim, usually _your_ area mind you, she is - or more accurately was - a wedding planner.  Quite a well known one according to locals.  But not without her fair share of enemies.  Now if we could ID our suspect--”

Sherlock’s phone interjected with an insistent buzzing.  His face contorted into an annoyed huff.  Even the detective’s phone wouldn’t listen to him today.

“Lestrade?”  John asked leaning into Sherlock’s arm to see the screen for himself.

“Lestrade.” Sherlock smiled down at the shorter man.  “Suspect possible ID. He’s emailing the info now.  We can read it in the car on the way back.”

\--------

“Oh now that is brilliant.” Sherlock exclaimed. John’s laptop balanced warily between them on conjoined knees as the men digested Lestrade’s email.  Or more accurately, John watched Sherlock reading and deducing and shining with excitement like only he can.  

“What am I not seeing, Sherlock?”

“There,” he pointed resisting the urge to snap out _Everything you twit! You’ve been staring at my face the whole time with hardly a preemptive glance towards the file._ “Miss Firenze’s occupation.  Wedding planner.  Strangulation is a bit beyond friendly competition but the evidence is starting to slot into place.”

It was taking every fiber in Sherlocks being to focus his deduction skills on the case and not on John.  No matter how interesting his current behavior had become. But genius couldn’t be switched off completely.  John had become, though he loathed the analogy, a cat with catnip.  Ever since this morning when he took in Sherlock wearing his jumper, John’s eyes had been in a permanent haze as if lost in thought.  Sentimental thoughts. He was smiling and beaming non stop and the way his eyes kept looking the taller man over was building a tightness in his chest.  Then there were the touches.  And the crowding of his personal space.  Sherlock filed the information away.  Built a new wing in the John section of his mind and shelved new data for further examination.  For now, two women were dead and they were supposed to be finding the criminal behind it.

“So you think maybe Miss Green was cutting in on Gabriella’s territory?  Maybe stealing clients?”

“It is a possibility, yes.”  Sherlock clicked on the website for FirenzeFaboo.  A bold flash animation popped up replete with rainbow flags and dancing half naked men in tight shorts.

“Dammit Sherlock, that was my only rule.  I told you not to pull up porn on my laptop.”  

“What. It’s not. Shut up.”  Snapping his finger against the mute button Sherlock locked his eyes onto the site, scouring the _About_ section, ignoring John’s smirk.  He knew the blush creeping up his neck was obvious even to a consulting detective in training.  

“Oh. Hold this.” Sherlock shoved the laptop into John’s crotch eliciting a strangled moan.  He pawed through the case files in his own lap pulling out a witness statement. Unaware of his flatmate's icy blue stare boring into his face.

“Yes.  Obvious. Of course.  Motive John.  Now we just need to link the first one.”

“Sherlock, perhaps it’s the distracting pain in my cock talking, but what are you on about?”

The detective swallowed hard.  His words frozen by that one syllable coming out of his doctor’s mouth.  Oh sure, John has emitted all manner of foul words in his presence even that one in particular.  But never in actual reference to his own aching member.

“I.  That is.  The wedding planners.” Sherlock closed his eyes, treacherous things having drifted to the trousers of his flatmate.  “They were in competition but not for clients.  As you saw from the garish advert on her website, our suspect is an outspoken advocate of same sex marriage.  And as this witness testimony suggests, the second victim was equally outspoken against it.”  Sherlock waved the paper about excitedly, dropping it only to text Lestrade the news.

“Fantastic.” John breathed next to him.  Eyes glazed back over.  Trouser troubles apparently washed away with a fresh wave of daydreams.  Sherlock receded into his mind palace and let the doctor dream.  He had his own internal research to do.  Pulling open a file in his mind on the curious case of one Dr. John Hamish Watson.

\---------

“I hope you haven’t arrested her yet.” Sherlock said in lieu of a greeting.

“No, I figured you’d want to, you know, gather evidence before her behavior changed.” Lestrade answered trying his best not to roll his eyes.

“Very clever of you Inspector.  Quite right.  If she knows she is suspected for murder, her actions will alter and we may lose some vital clue in closing the case.  Besides, the only real evidence we have to tie her to the scene is a highly dismissible security video showing her stealing the one murder weapon we didn’t find with the corpse.”

“Yeah, there was that.  Couldn’t even get a warrant now if I wanted to.”

“She is a wedding planner. Perhaps two of your detectives might pose as a couple to distract her while John and I search her office. She does specialize in same sex couples rather exclusively though, so make sure the people you choose can act the part accordingly without looking too ridiculous.  Anderson in a dress will not cut it.”

“Gah. Sherlock Behave.  I wouldn’t want to see that even if the Queen’s life were in danger.”  A glimmer of mischievousness flickered in Lestrade’s eye before his calm mask returned.  “I have a better idea,” he said, clapping his arms around the backs of the detective and his doctor “why don’t you and John play the couple while the detectives do the detective work?”

“What?” John spoke the word trapped in Sherlock’s throat.

“Think about it,” the DI continued pulling the men closer together into an uncomfortable hug with their matchmaker.  “You two are flatmates.  And partners.  You can pull off the act better than anyone on my force and you know it.”

Sherlock still had not spoken.  He looked at John, desperation in his eyes.  Searching for some sign, some hint in that tanned face to tell him it would be a horrible idea.  They would be crossing a line in their friendship.  One that Sherlock knew they had both been toeing since the first night.

“He’s right,” John resigned, locking eyes on Sherlock.  “His detectives would just bugger it all up and probably get someone killed.  I don’t have a problem with it, that is if you are okay with being fake attached to the likes of me.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but the blood rushing in his ears was drowning out the breadth of his vocabulary. He nodded agreement.   _This could be good_ he told himself.

“It's settled then. I’ll text you the details in the morning boys.  For now, get back home and enjoy your honeymoon!”  

Sherlock attempted to form a snarky retort but John was already steering him back to the elevators by the crook of his elbow.  “Thanks.  Afternoon Greg.”  

“Consider it an experiment,” John whispered once they were alone in the elevator.   Sherlock looked down at the brilliant man latched to his elbow.  Of course.  This would be very useful for gathering data.

“What a lovely idea,” Sherlock beamed suddenly finding his voice.  John’s hand slipped from his flatmate’s elbow to idly rubbing the soft wool of his jumper peeking out from the cuff of Sherlock’s coat.  The caress sent shivers down Sherlock’s spine hitting him with unexplainable symptoms similar to hypothermia.  Cool ice dissolving into painful heat.  

“I don’t suppose I’ll ever see that jumper again will I?” John asked, smile lines pulling around his eyes.

“We’re a couple now, darling, set theory dictates it is mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	8. Shopping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys do a lot of talking. A lot. Then they go shopping. And talk some more. All fluff and feelings this round.

“Sherlock, could you say something?” John stood at the top of the stairs, arms outstretched in an ill fitting suit he’d had since uni. His face contorted in concern and discomfort waiting for Sherlock’s review.

“You assume I know these things because I wear suits instead of jeans and jumpers? John I dress how I dress because I prefer the feel of finer fabrics and quite honestly my bum looks better in tailored pants. It does not mean I know how to, as you so rudely put it, _dress gay_. And as I said earlier, you can wear whatever you want. Homosexuality is not some disease that affects the fashion senses, it is just a sexual preference. Homosexuals do not all dress alike any more than anyone else. Besides, judging by the constant string of commentary and congratulations you and I get from strangers and friends, we _already_ look the part.”

Letting that last fact sink in, John resigned himself to normalcy and slinked back to his room to put on his boring Doctor Watson uniform. Sherlock was right. Everyone already assumed he was gay no matter what he wore. He should have learned that years ago.

“Oh.” Sherlock muttered to himself. John had very blatantly frowned and pouted. Withdrawing to his room in a sulk. _He likes dressing up. He was looking forward to going all out in this little role play. Interesting. New data added to the John Watson Wing_.

“Hang on,” John yelled from his room, “did you just say you like how your arse looks in trousers? I knew you were a poncy git.”

Sherlock lobbed a couch cushion at his giggling flatmate as he made his way back down to the living room. “Oh shut it. I know a particular pair of dark wash jeans a certain doctor only whips out for date night. But the red pants, you save those for--”

“Oi!” John cut Sherlock off with an arm around his neck. Wrestling the taller man down to the couch. Sherlock’s breath was knocked from him as the full force of John’s weight settled on his chest, pinning his arms beneath strong thighs. His eyes couldn’t help staring at the aforementioned jeans just inches from his face now.

“Oh John, did you wear these for me?”

“You wish.” John teased. Before the panting detective could inquire after the shade of pants beneath, Lestrade interrupted them with a string of text alerts. John jumped back, letting Sherlock up to check his phone. He took the opportunity to adjust himself and get a cool glass of water for his unexpectedly arid throat. _Bit too obvious John. Married to his work. Reign it in_.

“Address is a bit of a ride, taxi or tube?”

“Taxi.” John answered. The doctor wanted to get in some practice role play with his faux fiancé before they arrived and he would prefer to do so with a smaller audience.

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock said, reading John’s thoughts. _Of course_.

\---------

“Sherlock, I could take the lead today since I’m more, that is, I, well I’m experienced.”

“John, while your relationship history is tedious and well documented, my _own_ experience is not as limited as you and the rest of London presume.” Sherlock’s lips had tightened into a thin line of annoyance. It was clear he had had this conversation before and did not enjoy repeating himself.

“Oh.” John was hit with a wave of nausea that tasted more of jealousy than stale toast or tea. “How experienced?” he croaked out.

Sherlock turned and locked eyes with his flatmate. “Are we still discussing dating or do you wish to know if the rumors of my virginity are false?”

“Umm both?” John actually couldn’t decide whether he cared more about the history of Sherlock’s heart or his cock. But his curiosity was now a painful itch he had to keep scratching no matter how much it would hurt. “That is, only if you feel comfortable, Sherlock.”

“John, I am not your blushing bride. Though my sexual history is rather limited, I still have one. I have always been a curious mind willing to experiment and research. However, as you have no doubt observed, most people bore me immediately. I am aware when one of them finds me attractive, but it usually just makes encounters uncomfortable. Just because I choose not to respond to advances or feelings when I do not reciprocate them, does not mean I am _unaware_.” He let the last word hang between them before continuing. “Obviously some people have managed to maintain my interest over the years. Most of whom did not arouse me. So the small pool of possible sexual encounters have always been a primary factor in my limited experiences.”

“And these handful of arousing and interesting people, how were your experiences with them?”

“Varied. My first unreciprocated attraction was to a boy in my homeroom at primary. I have forgotten most details of his face but can remember clearly two things: his ridiculously long last name and beautiful blue eyes. First kiss was a fascinating tour guide I met in Rome while on a school trip. She was the first female to hold my attention and the last before Irene. Since then I have met only men who managed to interest me. It’s nothing against women as a whole. But no human being is immune to their upbringing and as things stand, society is still raising most women to lead dull lives.”

“So men are just a preference of circumstance?” John asked trying to hide his excited smile. His mind was lighting up, all too familiar with the feelings Sherlock had described. He hated the terms ‘gay’ or ‘bisexual’ because it was more complicated than that. Reducing people to whether or not they had dicks just seemed stupid when relationships involved so much beyond sex.

“Well as much as you prattle on about how _not gay_ you are, I too find my sexuality is fluid and depends more on the individual than their sexual organs.”

“I understand.” John said almost at a whisper. He turned to stare out the window and calm the rising heat in his chest. Scared of what his face was revealing to the highly observant man next to him. “Sherlock.” John spoke quietly to the detective’s reflection. “Thank you for sharing that with me. I would reciprocate, but I imagine you already deduced everything I could tell you back when we first met at Bart’s.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock laughed. “I had many opportunities to observe your failed hand at dating with the parade of boring women you toured through the flat. That said, I do concede you should fill the dominant role in this sham relationship for today. You are a military man and already control most of the domestic decisions in our flat so the position will come more naturally for you. Today I will be your eager virgin bride.” Sherlock watched John’s reflection in the glass beaming with a new excitement. “Do not get too used to it, _darling_.” He inserted just a taste of threat into the last word and slipped his hand across the seat to take John’s arm as their cab slowed to a stop.

“Show time.”

\-------

“Gabriella I assume. How is it possible you are even more beautiful in person?” John turned on his charm instantly. The wedding planner beamed and pulled John in, hugging him like he was the most adorable person on the planet. “Just call me Gabby, hon, I insist!”

Sherlock hung back watching John do just as he’d predicted. People liked the unassuming little doctor man. Normal people found John approachable. Normal people always wanted to hug and touch and kiss John on the cheek. Normal people only saw caregiver Doctor Watson. Invalid war veteran Captain Watson. Normal people never saw _John_. For today, the detective could let that tiny spark of jealousy streaking across his face come out and play.

Sherlock cleared his throat and leaned into John’s elbow making a pained face. “Oh my squishable teddy. People can’t seem to keep their hands off you!”

“Oh darling, do behave, you worry too much.” John patted Sherlock’s fingers reassuringly. “Miss Gabby here is going to give you the most beautiful wedding money can buy. Promise.”

Sherlock lowered his shoulders and raised his head in a coy plea. Feigning the concerned fiancé while taking in every minute detail of the planner as she walked them to the conference room.

“So, tell me how you two met!” Gabby beamed across the small glass table.

“Oh honey show her,” John nudged Sherlock in the shoulder and winked. “My Sherly here is quite the dreamer.”

Sherlock resisted a snarl at the childish shortening of his name and pulled the album from his satchel. The ridiculous thing had been Mrs. Hudson’s idea. “No bride plans a wedding without a dream book. If you boys want it to be believable, you’ll need to make one.”

Thanks to her meddling, he and John had ended up in line at Tesco purchasing twenty three different bridal magazines, a photo album, glue sticks and scissors.

“Thank god for self checkout machines.” John had muttered. Speaking too soon of course. The machines had obviously become sentient and dispatched warnings to harass the poor doctor whenever he tried to use one. Especially if said man was making a rather large purchase of bridal supplies. With a flatmate in tow who apparently morphed into a bratty five year old when shopping.

“John. Look! Oh they have this one in chocolate. Get those.”

“Sherlock. Please stop indulging in the impulse buy snacks. We have biscuits at home. You can wait til tea.”

“Fine.” Sherlock had crossed his arms and glowered.

“Behave or I won’t marry you.” John had teased.

Hours of fake planning their fake wedding had produced the monstrosity now before them. Their faux love story splayed out in images and snippets as Sherlock recounted the timeline they had agreed upon. _John’s military photos_. “While he was stationed in Afghanistan I was part of a write to the troops campaign at University.” _Some staged letters between Sherlock and John_. “We met once he returned to London.” _A few candid shots of Sherlock from Lestrade’s wedding. A few of John from Harry’s._ “It was love at first sight.”

 _It was_. John thought. His eyes going dark with passion remembering the actual first time they had met. He blinked to see Sherlock reflecting his easy smile. Had he been recalling that day at Bart’s as well?

“Oh just look at you two! So much love between you I feel like a third wheel!” Gabby beamed. "Can I see the ring? Or rings?”

“Oh.” Sherlock looked to John. How the hell had they overlooked such a crucial detail?

“Actually, my darling has sensitive skin and I must take care of his delicate hands. We are shopping for the perfect ring still. Perhaps something in rose gold.” _Clever, brilliant, fantastic John!_ Sherlock’s mind lit up when he understood. “And he just loves those new stones, all the rage now. What were they called again, Sherly?”

“Fire opals.” Sherlock said, setting his observant gaze to Gabby’s faltering smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Bit of fanart with the necklace now. :D [source](http://firead.deviantart.com/)


	9. Hanging Out With Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone gets drunk and talkative. John gives himself piss poor medical advice and Greg gives sound dating advice.

“To CSI Baker Street!” Lestrade cheered, dropping two new pints between John and Sherlock.

“Cheers.” John smiled, clinking glasses with the DI and his flatmate.  Sherlock’s hands cradled his beer, letting the cool glass ease the scrapes on his hands.

“Is it okay for you to drink so much with the pain medication John?”  The smiling doctor clapped a hand across Sherlock’s shoulder and winked over his half empty pint.  “I’ll be fine.  Those warnings don’t apply to doctors.”  Sherlock scoffed but didn’t press the matter. John had earned more than a few drinks after last night.  He could always abstain and keep an eye on the festivities with a clear head for both of them.

Sherlock watched the glassy blue eyes and pink flushed face of his flatmate and allowed a smile to slip past his sour visage.  But as his head turned, the ugly black line of stitches along John’s temple brought Sherlock’s pout back in full.  Ever since John had checked out of the hospital there had been an uneasy tension between them.  

Gabriella’s rib crushing hugs had been no match for the strength of her defensive outburst in the small back office.  Once she realized what was going on, the woman had lashed out like a trapped animal and barreled through the men blocking her exit.  Sherlock had braced his fall on a stack of rhinestone Save the Date cards, suffering minor irritating scrapes across the heels of both hands and a blow to the back of the head that only had him dazed for a moment.  But John had been pushed back against and through the glass partition wall.  Not to be done in by a shower of glass, the former soldier kicked back and scrambled to his feet chasing the wedding planner turned homicidal maniac across the parking lot where she promptly attempted to run him over.   John took the impact with his bad shoulder, doubling over onto the pavement and catching the fall with his face.  Before the mad woman could reverse and finish him off though, Lestrade and Donovan had dragged her kicking and screaming from the vehicle.

“Sod that warrant, we’ve all just witnessed attempted vehicular manslaughter.” Lestrade bellowed, cuffing her.

When Sherlock made his way outside, following the alarming trail of blood from the conference room, he found John unconscious, surrounded by EMT and Lestrade’s pained face feeding every fear racing through his mind.  “Don’t worry mate, he’s alive.  Just knocked out.” Greg spoke to the grimace in Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock waved off concerned medical staff as they tried to dab his own weak injuries and climbed into the ambulance with John.  His doctor could take care of him at home. When they got home.

“I’ll be fine I promise.” John said nudging a gentle elbow into Sherlock’s ribs.  He dipped his face to catch those sad silver eyes, waking the taller man from his unhappy thoughts. “The cuts weren’t as deep as they looked, Sherlock.  My shoulder will always be a work of shit that requires medication to tolerate.  And I was cleared for concussion this morning.  Now please, come have a drink with us.  You deserve at least ten percent of the credit here.”

“Ten percent John?  Oh that is generous of you.”  Sherlock found it difficult to maintain a foul mood around John these past few days.  And after their conversation in the taxi, Sherlock was all but certain of the other man’s attraction to him.  But he was still unsure of how aware John was of his own actions and if he was ready to admit to them.

“Here, have a shot with us.  What do you prefer gin, tequila, rum?”

“Whiskey,” Sherlock answered after a moment. “Jameson, if they have.”  He watched John return to the bar next to Lestrade ordering the drinks.  John was right.  He was a doctor, a damn good one, and if all his nagging of Sherlock over the past year proved anything, John knew when the human body was in real danger.  But Sherlock also knew that pride and military training had left his flatmate with an unpredictable streak of bravado.

Pinching in his abdomen distracted Sherlock for a moment. _Transport.  Tedious._ The lanky man elbowed his way to the rest rooms.

\----------

“So, how long have you two been together?”

“Excuse me?  What? Who?”  John looked at Greg confused.  Had his boozy ears simply misheard?

“You and Sherlock,” Lestrade clarified waving a hand in the general direction of the restrooms.  “I saw.  Rather, Dimmock showed me, on the tapes.”

John stared at the DI’s face trying to will it into focus and explain itself.  Giving up he dropped his gaze to the row of shots waiting for his flatmate’s return.   _The tapes?  The surveillance tapes?_  John’s heart flew into a sobering panic.

“What. Exactly. Did you see?” John demanded.  Grabbing Lestrade by the shoulders, he squared his back and loomed with all the seriousness his bent frame could muster.

“John woah. Don’t worry no one else saw it.”  Lestrade flustered.  He put his bottle back on the table and raised empty palms to the doctor’s face in surrender.  “I just saw you kissing Sherlock while he was asleep in the viewing room.  I assumed you two were dating and trying to keep it secret.  It just looked --”

“No. We’re not.  He’s not.  He isn’t to know, okay?  I kissed him _because_ he was sleeping you see?”  John relaxed his grip on the DI and lay his face into his palms mumbling the rest.  “Yeah I like the guy.  But he’s, well you know him.  I’m just a boring normal person.  Please Greg, just don’t say anything.  I don’t want to ruin our friendship.”

“Okay mate, I understand.  I won’t say anything.” Greg promised. “But John,” he leaned his head down to capture frightened blue eyes. “You _should_ say something.  To him.  I think you might be surprised how important you actually are to him.  I’ve known Sherlock for years and I have never seen him open up the way he has with you.  You are not just some ordinary man to him.”

Sherlock cleared his throat behind the two men whispering over whiskey shots.  “Interrupting?”  John’s face flushed pink as he jerked up in his chair.  “Ah, no, here.” he reached down thrusting the glass into Sherlock’s hand. “We were just waiting for you to get back.”

“Cheers,” Sherlock said flatly, clinking glasses and knocking back the delicious burning sip.  “Here,” he said pulling out his wallet, “get a couple more rounds on me this time.”

John and Greg preoccupied with the bartender, Sherlock allowed his heart to ratchet and his skin to flush in excitement replaying the conversation he had just overheard.   _New data. John is aware of how he feels about me.  John had taken action to test the waters on his own by kissing me while I slept.  Similar minds Dear Watson.  Operation get-your-flatmate-drunk-enough-to-tap-into-his-subconscious is a go_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #still up to something


	10. Animal Ears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drunk Sherlock. Doctor John. Matchmaker Greg.

 

“John. My eyes. I think my brain is. How many drinks have we had John? I can’t seem to deduce properly.”

“Are you serious right now? The world’s most observant man cannot do a simple addition problem?” John giggled and threw a friendly arm around Sherlock to hold him steady. _Was I just swaying? What’s going on?_ “Let me hazard a guess, Sherlock, you dont usually drink do you?”

“Not in particular. I don’t believe I have ever been drunk before John. Not my area.”

“Well lucky for you, I grew up with an alcoholic. You’ll survive.”

“But John, how are you not.” Sherlock’s numb tongue tried to form around the words swimming in his mind. “You were drinking too. I saw. Higher tolerance?”

“Sherlock, did you really not notice? I have been drinking water for the past two hours after taking my last dose of paracetamol. I _am_ still a doctor.”

“But you were toasting and taking shots John. I saw.”

“Water, Sherlock. I was toasting with water. Sorry to disappoint, mate, did you have plans to feel me up later?”  


“Oh do shut up.” Sherlock buried his face in his palms willing the room to stand still. Feeling a wave of nausea and drowsiness wash over him.

“Don’t worry,” John reassured the taller man, rubbing gentle circles along his shoulder blades. “Once Greg gets back from saying his goodbyes, I’ll make sure we all get home safe. Just rest your eyes for now.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock hummed in contentment.

John had been bitter earlier. Resentful that he couldn’t enjoy a drink with Sherlock. But after his flatmate had a third shot of fine Irish whiskey, he became such a giddy mess that John hadn’t stopped smiling all evening. Sherlock was a happy drunk. A fun lovable personality. His consulting-detective-in-training mind tried to deduce something about inhibitions lowered and what this meant for who Sherlock really was, but John was too focused on enjoying the new expressions on Sherlock’s face to care. His smile was brilliant. His laugh shook the very foundation of John’s frame. If that was the face he kept hidden from the rest of the world, it was cruel.

“He’s lit up like this isn’t he?” Greg had ribbed John. Caught staring at the man he had confessed feelings for. “Only since you John. I’m telling you.”

John had simply huffed a small laugh and shook his head in denial. “You should be thanking the bartender, not me.”

And so it was that, despite his best efforts to drink away the pain and take a night off, one Doctor John Watson found himself on the clock as caretaker of two grown men. He assembled the detective and inspector into a lopsided heap on a bus bench and flagged down a pair of taxis. Slipping the first cabbie a few extra bills with an apology and Greg’s address, he waved Lestrade off and returned to Sherlock’s side.

“Oi! Don’t go snogging in the taxi!” the DI yelled out the window as he rode past them.

“John can bloody snog me wherever he wants!” Sherlock yelled back shaking a half hearted fist at the vanishing tail lights.

“Alright, enough of that.” John laughed nervously. He slipped Sherlock’s arm across his good shoulder and helped him into their cab. “221B Baker Street please.”

“No puking in the back.”

“No worries, mate, I got him.”

\-------

“John. John. John. Hey John. Help.”

“I’m here. I got you. Let’s just get upstairs first.” John struggled to keep Sherlock dressed as the taller man had started half assed attempts to disrobe as soon as they were indoors. His coat and scarf were now a knotted mess and three randomly selected buttons had been unfastened on a partially untucked shirt. He had lost a shoe on one of the steps.

Once inside their flat, Sherlock gripped John in a sleepy bear hug knocking him against the door. John winced as a jolt of pain shot its way through the booze and drugs. Frustration peeled at Sherlock’s grin as he strained to maintain his verbal faculties. “Sorry. Did you, I mean, did I. You’re hurt.” Sherlock reached a hand up to the stitches across John’s temple. His eyes wide in horror like he was seeing them for the first time.

“Yeah. Happens a bit in our line of work.” He said forcing a smile to reassure his flatmate. “Nevermind that. Lets get you to bed.”

“Yes. John help please.” Sherlock pulled away from the smaller man and gestured to his clothing. “It’s hot. I’m melting.”

“Drama queen. Come here.” He steered Sherlock to the sofa and instructed him to sit still so he could help finish dressing him for bed.

 _This is my fucking life. I finally get my gorgeous flatmate begging me to strip him and he’s drunk._  Taking off the Belstaff, scarf and suit jacket, John hung them up by the door and removed his own coat. Turning back to the sofa he found Sherlock slumped over with his shirt hanging off one shoulder and flies undone. A secure belt still stubbornly fighting to keep his trousers up. He let the taller man rest his eyes and finished stripping him down to his pants. Trying his hardest to will away his half mast erection and stay medically detached. _No, don’t touch him. Just help him._

After a quick run to Sherlock’s room for pajama bottoms and a tshirt, the doctor dressed his flatmate and gently woke him. “Sherlock. Get up. Let’s get you into bed so you don’t hurt your neck.”

“Mmmm kay. Help.” the sleepy detective raised his arms up towards John, breaking the shorter man’s cool demeanor to let a giggle slip. “Sherlock, I cannot and am not going to carry you. Now get up on your feet.”

Grumpily the whiskey soaked flatmate rose on shaky legs and leaned into John. Sherlock stumbled and reflexively reached out grabbing John’s shit shoulder in a bruising grip. Soldier mode activated, John set his face to bear the pain and set a stronger grip on Sherlock’s waist to take some of the weight off, guiding them up to Sherlock’s room and to his bed.

John sat them both on the edge of the bed. Propping up pillows and pulling aside the duvet and sheets for Sherlock. “There, now just wait here a moment. I want you to drink some water before you lie down.”

“John, no. Stay.” Sherlock wrapped his fingers around John’s wrist as he stood up from the bed.

“Sherlock, I’ll be right back.” He curled his fingers around Sherlock’s stroking his knuckles reassuringly. All smiles and warmth. “Promise.”

“And then you’ll stay?”

“And then I’ll stay.”

\------

“Augh!” Sherlock yelped as the blinding sunlight pierced his eyes, rousing him from a foggy sleep into a raging migraine. Rolling over to his clock he saw a glass of water and aspirin waiting for him. And beyond that, coming into focus in his dressing chair, was a balled up blonde flatmate asleep in jeans and a rumpled jumper. Taking the pills and knocking back the water, Sherlock sat up, deep breath, opened his eyes again and pieced together what he could from the night before.

Throwing back the duvet he took in his night clothes. Looked up again at John sleeping in the clothes he’d worn to the pub. _He stayed to watch over me_. Something about John’s posture caught Sherlock’s eye. He was favoring the injured shoulder. His face looked pained, not an easy sleep. That small sitting chair couldn’t be comfortable for a normal person to sleep in, much less an injured man. _Oh John_. That warmth in his chest was back again. All smiles and happiness.

Rising from the bed, Sherlock strode to the shorter man and kneeled at his feet to gingerly shake a knee. “Hey, John.” he whispered, unsure if John too had a hangover. “Come on, you can’t be comfortable.”

“Hmm. Sherlock?”

“Yeah, come on, you need to lie down properly. You’re still healing.”

“Hmm okay.” John sleepily got up and stretched. Walked straight to Sherlock’s bed and passed out face down, wrapping up in a cuddle with the duvet. Sherlock laughed. Any other day he would have complained and shooed John off to his own room. But he was awake now and John was obviously too sore and too tired to make it upstairs. Conclusion: let him sleep.

A muffled beeping from the front room pulled Sherlock’s gaze away.

Walking into the living room Sherlock pieced together more of the previous night. His shirt and trousers were neatly folded beside the sofa. John’s military ingrained folding style. His shoes, scratch that, shoe? and socks were beside the clothing. Coats hung by the door. The vibrating and flashing green light from his suit jacket meant a text.

Sherlock opened the text screen. _Lestrade. Probably wonders when we’ll come in to speak to the susp_ \-- “What the hell?”

_Cheers! Thought you and John might want a copy of this._  
 _[image attachment]_  
 _btw I put the mistletoe in your coat pocket when John wasn’t looking. Swing by later today after 2. -GL_

Sherlock’s face drained of color and he had to sit down for fear of falling over. The attached image showed a very flushed faced Sherlock and Lestrade with a blushing but sober John. Sherlock was smiling down at John, pulling the shorter man in for what looked to be an attempted kiss. Held over their heads in Greg’s hand was a bit of mistletoe. And on their heads, dear god, what was that? The DI appeared to be wearing some sort of elf hat with false pointed ears. John had on a Santa hat, knocked askew by Sherlock’s grasp around the back of his neck. And in the center, smiling like an imbecile, the detective saw himself wearing a ridiculous pair of reindeer antlers complete with felt ears.

_What have I done? -SH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fanart! <3 I love you guys. :*  
> [source](http://fuumika.deviantart.com/)


	11. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is spilling their guts. It's gross.

John emerged from Sherlock’s room just past noon. He had stayed in bed staring at the ceiling for fifteen minutes before finally steeling himself for the encounter with his flatmate. The doctor opened the door to see his friend sprawled on the sofa in a clean suit, staring grumpily at his phone. _Shit. He got the text too_.

“We can talk about last night after I have had a shower and tea.” John spoke before Sherlock could look up, and disappeared into the bathroom without waiting on a reply.

“Of course,” Sherlock agreed to the empty room. He pocketed his phone and skipped into the kitchen putting a kettle to boil. No sense in letting John drag this out any longer than need be.

Steaming up the mirror with a scalding shower, John slumped against the tiles and let his muscles uncurl and dissolve. He was covered in fresh bruises from Sherlock’s drunken grip and was well past his next dose of painkillers. Washing the pub from his hair, the doctor gingerly avoided his stitches and throbbing scalp. His soapy hands brushed across the new bruises at his collarbone and lingered, remembering. Sherlock’s warmth against him. Sherlock’s arms around him, pushing him against their door, leaning into his neck. Sherlock’s lips crashing into him as Donovan snapped pictures. His whiskey soaked smile seared into John’s memory. The blonde let his fingers trace the pout of his lips, closed his eyes and sighed. _Did that really have to be our first kiss? I bet you don’t even remember it. And if you do, you regret it._

When John finally stepped from the steamy bathroom in a towel, Sherlock had disappeared. “Of course,” John muttered, walking up to his own room. Sherlock was sitting on the edge of his bed, holding up a cup of tea and two paracetamol, smiling tentatively. Looking down at the detective’s palms, John saw a lopsided bandage job and let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. If not for the look of concern in those steely eyes, he would have demanded his privacy and booted the dark haired genius out.

“Sherlock,” John reached gingerly for the detective’s hands, taking the cup and pills from him. “Thank you. And you must let me fix those bandages for you before we leave.” The man so named looked down at his palms and frowned. “I’ll be fine. But John.” Sherlock cleared his throat trying to form the next words carefully. “I cannot help but notice you have fresh bruises along your neck, shoulder and,” he swallowed hard, “your hips. They appear to match my finger span precisely. Did I? That is, we didn’t?”

“No, Sherlock. I can assure you the false rumors of your virginity remain intact.”

“Good. I never wanted our fir--” he caught himself. _Fuck_. “I’m glad you remain unmolested.”

John pretended not to have heard the verbal slip and changed the subject. “I assume you got the same text from Lestrade?”

“Yes. Did I? Did we?”

“Yes, you got drunk and kissed me and Donovan tried to take a picture but Anderson thankfully mucked it up as he does everything. So there is no evidence of the actual kiss itself. But plenty of witnesses. So today at the Yard will be a bit awkward.”

“Bugger. I was hoping. Ah I don’t know what I was hoping. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s okay, really. I would have cut you off earlier had I known your inexperience drinking. I just assumed that since you had a drink preference, you knew what you were doing.”

“It was my father’s drink. I couldn’t think of anything so I just said the first label that popped in my memory. My own experience has always been with stimulants.”

Both men shared a long silence while each reminisced his own unhappy memories of Sherlock’s past drug abuse. “So, lesson learned. Never again.” Sherlock resolved standing to exit and straightening his shirt. “I’ll let you get dressed then.”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?” he froze, one foot in the hallway.

“I kissed you while you were sleeping in the viewing room. Dimmock saw me, I wasn’t thinking about internal security cameras, I know, I’m an idiot. Lestrade was told. It’s why he’s been so pushy lately. I just want you to know, the guilt isn’t one-sided. We need to talk about this.. thing between us. But right now we have a case to solve. So can we just, shelve it for now?”

“I’ll meet you downstairs.”

John swore he saw Sherlock break into a grin before closing the door. And he definitely heard whistling as his flatmate left the apartment.

\--------

“She’s stopped talking to us.” Lestrade explained grumpily to Sherlock, “Says she wants to talk to you two.” Signs of the Inspector’s hangover darkened his face, amplifying his weariness. _I guess it pays to have a caring doctor for a flatmate_.

“Wonder why she wants us.” John mused as he followed Sherlock to the interrogation room.

“Oh hello boys.” Gabriella smiled up at them. “How’s the shoulder John dear? If that even is your name.” John faked a smile, taking a seat in the back.

“Why did you request to speak with us?” Sherlock asked, straddling a chair opposite their suspect.

“I liked you boys. And I wanted to apologize for hurting you,” her eyes glanced down at Sherlock’s bandaged hands. Flickered up to the stitches at John’s hairline. “But you have to understand why I ran.” Gabriella continued to talk to John despite Sherlock sitting directly across from her.

“Apology not accepted,” Sherlock growled. “Is that everything?”

Stunned a moment, Gabriella huffed in a breath as Sherlock stood up and made for the door.

“I- I wanted to confess. But I wanted to tell you everything. I want to tell someone who will understand.” Her eyes were still locked on John. He looked to Sherlock, full of questions, waiting for his lead.

“Go on then.” Sherlock spoke, not turning to face her yet. “I’m listening.”

“We’re listening.” John added, after a nod from Sherlock.

“Oh!” Gabriella yelped in surprise once the dynamic shift of the room hit her. “So when you were acting you just changed roles. I see, I see.” John looked lost for a moment but Sherlock was already laughing. “John and I share a relationship a bit more complicated than all that.” the detective waved his hand about dismissing the invisible binary labels between them. “But we are talking about you right now, and why you murdered two women.”

“Yes. But they were murderers. I know, vigilantism is still a crime. No doubt by now you are aware of my outspokenness regarding same-sex marriages.” Sherlock returned to his seat, watching their suspect’s face as she spoke. Taking in every minute hand motion. “Being homophobic isn’t a crime, but it is disgusting and often leads to crime. Both women have killed homosexuals that I know of. But of course the police didn’t do anything. Claimed it was all circumstantial. What was I supposed to do, when it hurt--” She cut herself off. Sherlock noted the fear flicker across her face. She was hiding something, something dangerous.

“So, I am to believe your motive was good samaritan gone bad. But for my own understanding, please walk me through each murder.” John perked up behind Sherlock. He never asked anyone to explain in detail unless he knew they were lying or hiding something. The prat had even used the tactic on John a few times to locate cigarettes or lab equipment he’d hidden.

Gabriella’s voice trembled and her eyes lost focus recalling a memory. “Helen was first. The original plan was to make it took like burglary gone wrong, so I stole a necklace and had it delivered to her as a gift. I hid in in her garage until she returned and attacked her when she had her guard down.” Sherlock hmmed, encouraging her to continue. She had already lied, five times that he could count.

“The second time, Miss Green, I was a bit sloppier. I didn’t have as much time to plan. Maybe the necklace was weak from the first time, but it broke and that’s why I left it and ran.”

John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock waiting for his lead. Even he knew that last bit was a lie.

“Well that was an interesting story. I wouldn’t recommend it for small children, but you might be able to find a publisher once your time has been served.” Sherlock stood again, challenge burning in his gaze.

“W-What?” the confused woman stammered. “I’m telling you the truth!”

“Who are you protecting?” Sherlock asked coldly. “You said earlier that someone was hurt by one of these deaths. I can only assume by your tone and the look of a bad memory revealed in your face that it is someone you care about. So who is it? And why are you willing to confess to two murders to protect them?”

“I-fuck you! No one.”

“John,” Sherlock said wrenching the door open. “we’re done here.”

John stopped, looking between the two glowering stares. “Gabby. Please. No one is worth--” his eyes flicked to Sherlock for a moment and remembered all the times he had taken another life to protect his friend. “Let us help you? You will only hurt this person by hurting yourself and putting the burden back on them.”

“John, I knew you would understand. But I’m sorry, I cannot. We are done here. Goodbye _Sherly_.” Gabriella purred the last word out in mockery. Sherlock threw an angry scowl her way and stormed out.

“Any luck?” Lestrade asked as the men entered his office.

“No. She has confessed to both murders--”

“Fantastic!” Lestrade interrupted.

“No, it’s all a lie. She was wrong about details of both crime scenes. She is protecting someone. Someone close. Family or possibly a lover. The real killer is still out there. Send me all the personal information your team can dig up on her.”

“You aren’t going to stay and keep everyone after hours?”

“One, I am not going to press our luck that no one from the pub last night is on duty until this evening. Two, John and I have a conversation to attend to. I await your email. Afternoon.” With that, Sherlock whirled and headed straight for the elevators, a flustered John on his heels.

\-------

Once back at Baker Street, John left Sherlock to pay the cabbie and headed inside.

“John Dear! Congratulations!” Mrs. Hudson beamed, pulling him into a hug.

“What?” John looked around, confused.

“Sherlock, he told you finally right? Oh I am so happy for you boys. I’ll be off--”

“To your sister’s.” Sherlock finished, glaring daggers. “Mrs. Hudson is a bit preemptive John. Let’s leave her to her packing.” The sour faced detective dragged his flatmate up the staircase and deposited him on the sofa before he let the shorter man breathe.

“John please let me speak before you say another word.” The doctor closed his mouth and nodded, leaning back into the cushions to better take in the gorgeous genius before him. _He said I couldn’t talk, not that I couldn’t stare_.

“I have kissed you a total of twelve times now. Thirteen actually if last night’s mistletoe incident was only once.” John’s eyes widened at the revelation but he did not speak. Sherlock had closed his eyes, pinched his nose in order to focus his thoughts. “There are moments when you are asleep or injured and I just feel compelled to reassure some subconscious part of you, it has never been sexual. I understand if this bothers you and you feel like lashing out at me after I say this. In fact, I expect as much. But lately, I have realized that I am also attracted to you, physically. So what I had written off as just strong friendship, is apparently much more. I know I told you earlier this week that I have had sexual relationships before, and that is true. But I have not had a friendship like what I have with you. This is all still very new to me. So I rely on you, John Watson, to tell me if I have crossed some horrible line here. Because I need you in my life and do not want to make you so uncomfortable that you leave.”

Sherlock opened his eyes to find his friend gaping at him. John fought to find words. His mind had gone blank of everything he had planned to say. The whole scene he had been composing since last night. All deleted. His starring character had gone off script. But John was not a quitter, he was a fighter. And a man of action. Rising from the sofa he closed the space between them, grabbing the hips of the dark haired madman before him and pulling their bodies flush. Trailing a determined hand up Sherlock’s spine, gripping the curls at the base of his neck and tilting those silver eyes to lock on his, John whispered.

“Sherlock Holmes, you have my permission to kiss me whenever and wherever you damn well please. In fact, it’s encouraged.”

Genius detectives do not need to be told twice. His shaking arms pulled John impossibly tighter to his chest. Tracing a finger down the doctor’s cheek, watching his eyelids flutter half closed. He tilted the smaller man’s mouth up to meet his own and took the lips he’d been dreaming of for far too long.  Greedily, Sherlock's fingers wove into short blonde hairs, deepening their kiss as soon as John gasped for air.   Sherlock was determined to kiss John until every other kiss before this one was erased from their memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: this chapter wasn't supposed to exist but then I wrote too much and realized December has 31 days. So it's a freebie!


	12. Disguises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holidays are for fun, family, friends and fighting. Then the fireworks.

One week and four days since that first kiss, the newly lovers had their first big blow up. Christmas had come without a break in the case and Sherlock was on edge, sniping guests and wearing John’s patience down bit by bit. The long nights of passionate kissing that ended in the living room weren’t helping either. John had hoped his days of shower wanks had come to an end but his obsessive boyfriend was so distraught over ruining their first kiss that he was manic about their first time being perfect and kept abruptly stopping mid-snog to take a walk or lock himself in his room.

Now he stood staring out the window, running fingers through his hair in frustration, personified brooding. _How can we be at a dead end?_ _We found her twin brother. A former jeweler named Gabriel. Ridiculous. The man was now a professor and open homosexual who had previously lost a partner to accidental death. But there was no evidence. No hole in his alibis. How can I be missing something?_ Annoying high pitched giggles grated up his spine. “Oh do shut up,” Sherlock moaned, whipping his head around. The detective’s eyes took in John smiling and laughing by the fire. Leaning too close to Molly’s face in that ridiculous sweater Mrs. Hudson had given him the year before.

“John, if you insist on maintaining your regularly scheduled skirt chasing, please be so kind to break up with me first,” he sneered at the shorter man before stomping to his room and slamming the door.

“It’s okay.” John reassured everyone. He hated that look of pity on their faces. Like he was some battered housewife in denial. “It has been a long week. Perhaps we should call it a night, yeah? Thank you. Greg. Sally. Molly. Mrs. H.” He hugged them each in turn, twice as hard, emitting apology and warmth for Sherlock’s share. John hoped everyone knew how much Sherlock really loved them. He hated to cut things off early but Sherlock was not like a regular partner. Guests would not be a deterrent to a fight or saying hurtful things. And John would rather no one was here to witness what he knew was coming. Thankfully Mycroft had left earlier after taking his own serving of Sherlock smite, there would be no getting rid of his brother’s prying eyes and ears had he stayed.

“Sherlock?” John said, quietly knocking on the door between them. “Please talk to me. I sent everyone off.” _Or do you want me gone too?_ “Please,” John said softer, desperation cracking his voice. He felt the strength gone from him as the silence dragged on. When minutes, or maybe it was seconds, he couldn’t say but it felt too long and panic set his insides to ice, John opened the door and rushed in.

“Sherlock! Please don’t do anything stu--” His beautiful flatmate was stretched out on his bed, fingers steepled, lost in thought. “Oh thank god. Please don’t do that to me again. Don’t shut me out.” The blonde doctor turned to leave. “I will be cleaning if you need me,” he spoke to the space between them. _I love you._

“John.” Sherlock spoke just loud enough to stop John’s exit. “I’m sorry I took it out on you.”

\------

Two days later Gabriella Firenze was let out on bail. The only crime they had enough evidence for was petty theft. When she and her brother vanished the following morning, Sherlock was forced to call Mycroft. He drenched his brother in a saccharin apology so sticky sweet John stood behind him mimicking nausea, gagging and death in a dramatic sprawl across the sofa. Sherlock revived sleeping beauty from his faux deathbed with a gentle kiss. “Worth it,” John sighed, pulling Sherlock on top of him, hands trailing down his shoulders, teasing touches along the taller man’s spine towards that gorgeous bottom.

Sherlock’s phone buzzed between them.

“Bugger that cock blocking thing,” John whined, closing his eyes and willing away arousal for the hundredth time that day.

“Mycroft? Ah. Yes. Send it over.” Sherlock looked down at John staring up at him expectantly. Eyes full of excitement, every trace of disappointment washed away. “Thank you,” he spoke to both men at once eliciting small gasps of shock from each.

“Gabriel was spotted on CCTV headed to his office at Westminster. Shall we, darling?” Sherlock offered his arm to help John sit up. He knew the pet name was silly, but it made John laugh so he would continue to dose it out when his lover’s smile was needed. Which was always.

“I’ll text Lestrade and get a cab, grab our coats will you?” Sherlock looped on his scarf and dashed down the stairs two at a time.

\------

“Lucky break we were in Vincent Square on a robbery.” Lestrade smiled. Gabriella was talking to Donovan, stiffly shaking her head _No_. “Told her there’s no bail for interfering with a murder investigation. Brother is a no show.”

“Not for long,” Sherlock muttered, already texting Mycroft.

“No one saw him enter his office so he probably got warned off by his sister and took back to hiding. The Dean says he filed resignation a couple days ago though. Unexpected. Sally is trying to get her to talk.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock offered in thanks and agreement though he had already stopped listening. John knew that sound. Thanking Lestrade he turned to Sherlock, “Where to?”

“His office, I want to see if he took anything.”

\------

The days leading up to New Year’s Eve were filled with more sexual frustration, more grumpy flatmate bickering and a DI and older brother who both conveniently decided it was best to go out of the city for the holiday so John had no respite in an alcohol laden party. It was just him and his pacing lunatic with the flat to themselves all day.

“Sherlock, come here. Please?” John asked, patting the space between his thighs on the sofa.

“John now is not an approp--”

“No you prat, just come. Sit. Trust me.” Sherlock let loose a loud sulking sigh. Rolling his eyes in childish frustration before plopping on the carpet between John’s feet and resting a heavy head on John’s knee. _God help me, even like this he’s gorgeous._ John set to to the task before him. His well trained surgeon’s fingers were good for much more than stitching up lacerations. They were also expert at eliciting soft moans from his lanky lover.

“You are overdue for a back massage. This case is tying you up in knots,” John pinched the tender muscle at the base of Sherlock’s neck. “It’s killing me to see you so wound up.” He leaned forward, softly kissing the path his hand was creating behind Sherlock’s left ear.

“Oh John, you do have the greatest talent for observation when it comes to me.”

“Can’t help it. My eyes quite enjoy watching you.” Sherlock hmmed and moaned and sighed as John’s fingers worked loose the tight spots beneath his skin. “Talk to me Sherlock, I know it helps you think.”

“What did we see John?  Gabriel hadn’t removed anything from his office. There were no signs he had even been in there. So it still leaves the question of why he’d returned and why he resigned. If he had planned to skip the country with his sister, he will not have left while she is still here. Mycroft has her under surveillance so we know she is still in London. Nothing makes sense.” Sherlock huffed and leaned back, his curls falling across John’s lap.

“This does.” John said leaning down to kiss the beautiful man looking up at him so expectantly. Right on cue, Sherlock’s phone buzzed in his pocket. But before John could make a snarky comment, his phone started ringing too. Then Mrs. Hudson was up the steps and throwing their door open.

“Boys, please, I do hope you are decent but the telly.” She grabbed the remote, stepped back and brought the horror show live in full color.

“-- of you just tuning in: Explosion at Westminster School. Three confirmed dead.”

Moments later Sherlock was exchanging choice words with not-Lestrade and threatening to sick the British government on the whole of NSY. He threw his phone into the sofa and growled in frustration startling Mrs. Hudson back downstairs.

“John we _need_ to get there,” the detective moaned, gesturing at the telly as if John needed to be told what he meant.

“I know. But Lestrade is gone and Dimmock said he wouldn’t let us anywhere near the scene. Not until tomor-- Hang on.” John’s stared at the two firemen on their telly sifting rubble. “Sherlock. Do you still have the--”

“I do,” Sherlock said, picking up on John’s gaze. “But what will you wear? I only have one and I am not going without my doctor.”

EMS flashed across the screen carrying a stretcher and Sherlock smiled because he knew John had the same idea at the same moment and that made him proud. The good doctor’s mind switched to military mode as Operation Infiltrate Westminster was put into effect. Orders were barked off to his flatmate in terse bursts. “Scrubs should still fit. I’ll grab my old badge. You can’t exactly grab a cab in your costume, so pack it and we’ll find an alley nearby. But Sherlock, this is still a triage zone. If I get pulled off to help someone, leave me. I took an oath and I expect you to respect that.”

Sherlock nodded. He’d expected no less of the small man with a giant heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did it again. Snuck the writing prompt in at the very end because my story took on a life of its own. But I promise, the next chapter will more than make up for it with hot Doctor John on Fireman!lock action. <3


	13. Making [it] Out [alive]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a sticky snog-filled chapter, but then I went and cockblocked my boys with an explosion and injured people. Fluff to the rescue!

John couldn’t keep his eyes or hands off Sherlock in the cab ride downtown. The taller man had dressed for a quick change in a John’s old leather jacket, a white tee and jeans. Perfect, rear hugging jeans that unfairly reminded John of all his teen fantasies with James Dean. And then there was the new sensation of ticklish hair when they kissed. Sherlock’s face was already covered in two days of sulk induced scruffiness and he’d slicked back his curls into a soft sweeping poof. If the cunning doctor had suggested the look to “better not attract Dimmock’s attention” just to keep that soft stubble and get his gorgeous flatmate poured into sinful denim, then that was just a happy coincidence.

“When did you switch from EMS to clinic hours?” Sherlock broke into John’s fantasy.

“After my shrink decided it was prolonging the PTSD.”

“She really was an unfathomable level of idiotic wasn’t she?”

“About most things, yeah. Probably didn’t help that I Iied to her constantly, though.”

“You know, John,” Sherlock purred, sliding nimble fingers across the thin navy fabric of cotton scrubs over his boyfriend’s thigh. “I rather like this look on you. Not just the exterior attraction to you in loose clothes with but a drawstring between my wants and your cock.” Sherlock let the last word drift over John’s ear, barely audible. “But you are lit up from inside. You’re sitting taller, stiffer. You wear that EMS badge the way you wore your medals. Proud. You should go back to the work. Emergency services suits you and I believe it will bring you more… fulfillment. More so than administering vaccines and listening to hypochondriacs drone on about runny noses.”

John pondered the idea for a moment. He had found purpose working with EMS those first few months back from Afghanistan. It was rote labor. Save lives in order of need. Do it efficiently. He was able to stay emotionally detached and float through the days and nights while recovering from his own injuries. But it had been a lonely life.

“Sherlock. I know you probably already know this, but I need to make it clear for my own peace of mind. If I do return to that line of work, I would be gone from you on longer shifts. I would be in more dangerous situations where you could not help me. I am quite content leading a boring desk job by day and running around the streets of London with you at night. But you are right, I would be happy to go back to something I know I’m good at; saving people.”

The lanky detective leaned his scratchy cheek on John’s shoulder and hummed in thought. “I hadn’t considered that aspect,” he said simply. John huffed in surprise. Sherlock putting John’s needs above his own was a love declaration as far as he was concerned.

“Well we don’t need to decide anything today,” John smiled, pulling Sherlock in closer.

“Going to have to drop you here mates.” The cabbie interrupted. “Police blocking the next street.”

“No worries. This is fine.”

\------

Sherlock emerged from the alleyway dressed in a too loose fireman’s uniform. Tan fire retardant pants with yellow reflective striping held up by a pair of sturdy braces and a bulky coat pulled over his clothes. His helmet was tucked under his right arm as he ran a nervous hand through his slick curls looking at John expectantly.

The doctor was dumbstruck. Even in his own LFD fantasies, John had never pictured someone this otherworldly. “How are you human?” he asked with a quick kiss to his boyfriend’s scruffy cheek.

“We can discuss and fully explore your roleplay kink at a later date John.” Sherlock growled, pulling John in for a proper, deeper kiss. “Now, there is work to do. You go get settled up front. I will slip around the side and towards the offices. Text me if anything deviates.” The lanky detective turned fireman indulged in a small squeeze of John’s bum then skipped off in a most inappropriately giddy manner.

John sucked the air back into his gasping lungs. _This man is going to be the death of me_. Double checking his own uniform for details, the determined surgeon walked towards a small group of police cars and tapped Dimmock on the shoulder.

“He’s not here.” John assured the panicking DI. “I, however, am a doctor and cannot just sit at home watching when I am needed. So please, tell me how I can help?”

“Watson!” Sally Donovan called waving him over. “Doctor Watson! Oh good. The freak isn’t here is he? No matter, come here.” John didn’t need to be asked again and rushed off with a curt nod to Dimmock. Even he knew better than to argue with Sally.

“Hold pressure here, his artery has been nicked. EMS will be back with more stretchers shortly. I need to go find Anderson.” And with that John was back into his routine. All reassuring smiles and words of comfort while his well-trained fingers performed their job without much thought.

After three patients were safely on transport to the hospital, he texted Sherlock.

_I’m set up here. Will be doing a walk through with Sally in a moment to check for any missing people. J_

_Warn me if you come near the back offices. SH_

_Yes love. J_

Sherlock smiled at the slip but didn’t reply. Two more firemen rushed past him with handheld extinguishers. No doubt attacking the smaller fires eating their way through the flammable corridors. This morning’s blast had centered near the cafeteria, so he should be able to slip into Firenze’s office without being seen. Careful to avoid crumbling walls and smoke where parts of the surrounding buildings had been blown in, Sherlock’s mind began dissecting the crime scene. _Not a bomb. Most likely faulty gas line. Timing and location are still suspect._ A small cough to his left caught Sherlock’s ear.

\-----

John trailed his police escort into the blast zone. Following the beam of their torches with his eyes and searching for movement. Most of the fires had been extinguished as the sun began to set, but the alarming amount of smoke pouring from the side offices made him concerned. Distracted with visions of Sherlock pinned under imagined rubble, John did not hear the cracking overhead until it was too late. A fragile section of ceiling caved in knocking the man down with bruising force.

“Watson!” Sally yelled, sweeping her torch over rubble for signs of the doctor. “Shit. Buggery fuck.” John swore, sticking a hand up for the detectives to assist pulling him out. “I’m alright. I’m fine.” he insisted, brushing dust from his clothes. He stretched slowly, one limb at a time. Took in, held and released a deep breath. Nothing felt broken. Pain throbbed in all the usual hot spots.

“Your face is pretty smashed mate.” Sally commented, patting her pockets for a compact. “Here. Busted lip it looks like. How’s your head? Just had stitches out right?”

She was right, John looked back at his swollen right cheek and the ugly gash trailing down across his lip. Sherlock was going to be pissed if this interefered with snogging. He could just picture his boyfriend’s face, all pouty, hands on his hips. And damned if that didn’t make him laugh. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” he managed between giggles.

“Oi, I think maybe he did hit his head.”

“Okay, let’s keep moving.” John pushed past them, grabbing Anderson’s torch to light the way.

\-----

“Hello?” Sherlock asked carefully. The small noises froze. A child. “Don’t be afraid. London Fire Department. Here to help you.” Sherlock slowly slid into the classroom, listening for the slightest sounds. A small mop of dark curls peaked from under the desk to his right. Eyes wide and frightened. A young boy, eleven, took in the scrawny fireman come to save him.

“Come on. I’ll get you out.” Sherlock said, gesturing the boy over. The head simply shook in defiance. Eyes downcast and shameful. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” Sherlock spoke gently, easing closer to the desk.

“No. Yes. My leg.” The young boy gestured to a spot obscured from Sherlock’s view. The detective in disguise knelt to the floor, eye level and reassuring as he rounded the desk and took in the sight before him. Wrapped in a makeshift tourniquet from his ripped off uniform sleeves, the boy had several deep cuts along his right leg. “The window blew up,” he pointed at the gaping black hole in the classroom wall facing what used to be the cafeteria. “I was looking for Mister Green. Holiday gift before popping off.” His hand held a crumpled up bit of tinsel bow and smiled. “No point now I ‘spose.”

“Perhaps after. First I’ll take you to a friend of mine. Good man, he can fix you right up. Okay?”

“Okay. But I cannot stand. You look a bit wobbly for a fireman. Think you can carry me?”

Sherlock huffed a laugh and stood to tower over the crumpled child. Hands on his hips, glowering in a facade of machismo. He scooped the boy up gently in his arms and headed back to the front of the campus. He stopped for just a moment as shivers wracked the small frame. _Blood loss. He is losing core body heat._ “One moment” he spoke, slipping the heavy coat from his shoulders and wrapping it around the boy and pulling his phone from the inner pocket.

_Found a boy, deep lacerations on his thighs and calves. Where are you? SH_

_Headed towards the cafeteria with your two favorite yarders. J_

_Bugger. I’ll take him to the Library and watch him until you can meet us. Quickly. SH_

_On my way. J_

John tucked the phone back in his pocket clearing his throat. He feigned dizziness and braced a weary hand on the nearest wall. “My head is rather bad actually. Going to pop out front and get looked at just in case. You two be careful. Tell Dimmock to grab me if you find anyone.” Without waiting for protest he took off back down the hall.

\-----

“Sherlock?” John whispered, scanning his torch across the shelves.

“Back here John.”

John rounded the aisle and took in such a shock it knocked the air from him. Sherlock’s hair had fallen disheveled. His thin white shirt was covered in soot and blood. Braces barely keeping his trousers up, digging into the taut muscles of his back and shoulders as he slumped forward in concern. He was sitting on one end of a reading sofa, with a small bundle in his lap. Long fingers gently caressing through dark curls and murmuring soft words to the shivering boy.

Sherlock looked up as his lover entered the small reading area. John was wrecked. Worry had enhanced every crease in his face. His uniform had rips and there was a nasty trail of dark blood down the right side of his face, pooling obscenely at his swollen lips. The blonde man’s hair was dusted in a fine soot, aging him.

“Oh god.” they both spoke at once.

“What happened?” Sherlock sputtered, trying not to let his anger startle the boy in his lap. “A ceiling fell on me while I was distracted thinking one had fallen on you.” John choked out a strained laugh, trying to break the tension. “Is that blood?” he said softly, reaching a hand to squeeze Sherlock’s shoulder reassuring him.

“Yes. not mine.”

“John, meet Hamish. Hamish, this is John Watson, the doctor friend I told you about.”

“Hamish? What a wonderful name,” John smiled brightly down at the boy. Curious blue eyes peeked from beneath Sherlock’s coat to meet his own.

“Are you really as smart as he said you are? You can fix me?”

“I will do everything I can. Now let’s have a look.” John said, reaching inside his zip pocket for the stethoscope. Sherlock helped lie the boy across the sofa then stepped back to watch John work. His boyfriend really was quite brilliant in so many things. In just under ten minutes, the color was finally returning to the boy's face and he had stopped shaking. John had stitched up Hamish’s more deep cuts temporarily. Cleaned away any glass fragments. Applied gauze and bandages where necessary and set a splint on his possibly broken ankle. All while cooing reassuring tones and offering gentle ruffles of the hair and squeezing the boy’s palm when he winced back from the sting of antiseptics.

“I will take him back out front for the EMS to help him properly. Wait here for me?” John whispered as he walked past Sherlock to bin gloves and used wipes.

“Promise.” Sherlock smiled. Leaning in to seal his pledge with a deep kiss.  John winced as a sweet pain pinched his sore lips but Sherlock pushed on, determined to put everythig he couldn't say into that mouth.

“Gross.” Hamish moaned from behind them. “Can you make out _after_ I get out of here?”

John huffed out a laugh and leaned to pick up the giggling boy in his arms. “Watch it smart mouth, or I’ll pour straight alcohol on your legs.” Blue eyes shot wide with fear. “You wouldn’t!”

“Don’t be so sure,” Sherlock chuckled, “Doctor Watson is the mean one.” He winked, pinching the man’s bottom as he walked by. “Hurry back, _love_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> referenced uniforms:  
> London EMS and FD  
> 


	14. You Scream, Ice Cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sherlock?” John asked between breaths. “Are there any CCTV that can see in here?”
> 
> “No, why?” Sherlock huffed out, trying to catch his own breath.
> 
> “Because everyone from emergency response has gone off to celebrate the New Year and I’d like to know that we are well and truly alone before I do what I would like to do to you.”

“Sherlock, Donovan has invited us out for drinks if you like, or we can just go home and countdown the New Year together. I’m fine with ei--Oh, hello there.”

John froze between shelves catching sight of his lanky lover bent over the sofa, slipping braces off his shoulders. Back muscles strained beneath the thin tee. Sherlock turned slowly to meet his gaze. “Doctor, please. I am in need of assistance.” he teased.

“With pleasure.” John smiled, sliding up behind his boyfriend. His fingers gently traced up Sherlock’s biceps, grasping the straps hanging at his elbows and sliding them down each arm teasing a trail with his fingertips. Sherlock turned as his arms were freed and brought his hands up to cup John’s face. His smile faltered catching sight of the cracked blood stains still marring his lover’s cheek and lips.

“Oh, my love, you have not treated yourself yet. Perhaps I can assist you?”

John answered with a kiss. Pulling Sherlock tight against him, sweeping a tongue across his lower lip, begging for entry. But the detective pulled back. “Soon. Let’s take care of you first." He steered John to the sofa, seating him. Then began to slip his lithe fingers into various pockets on the good doctor’s uniform looking for the tools he would need.

“Sherlock, you could just tell me what you’re looking for.” John giggled between tickles as the devious detective pinched and poked along his body.

“I could, but that would be much less fun.” he squeezed John’s thigh from inside the pocket eliciting a yelp from the man. Leaning in to trail kisses up John’s neck and under his chin, Sherlock pulled antiseptic wipes from the shorter man’s breast pocket. “Lie back in the light.” Sherlock gently nudged John back into the moonlight spilling in from the large side glass and knelt over him. Tilting his lover’s face carefully, Sherlock cleaned his wounds, trailing behind his hands with kisses. Eyes focused and concerned. “How is your head?” The detective ghosted his fingers along the scar where John’s stitches had been. “Any pain?”

“No more than before. I checked.” John let his hands wander to caress Sherlock’s waist. Slipped lower to grasp the taller man’s hips, pulling the dark haired genius down to straddle his lap.

“I believe I am well attended to, Doctor Holmes.” John grinned up deviously. “Allow me to show my gratitude.” Snaking his hands beneath the bulky fireman’s trousers, John grabbed a handful of denim clad detective arse and squeezed. Now it was Sherlock’s turn to emit delicious moans. He leaned down recapturing his lover’s lips and finished the kiss from before. Hands wandering up Sherlock’s back and under his shirt, John pulled it over the detective’s head. Staring just a moment at the gorgeous sight before taking to tongue worship every inch of that pale skin. Up shoulders, across collar bones, up and back down that delicious neck. Flicking a hot tongue out to tease each nipple in turn until his lover was writhing and moaning in his hands.

“Sherlock?” John asked between breaths. “Are there any CCTV that can see in here?”

“No, why?” Sherlock huffed out, trying to catch his own breath.

“Because everyone from emergency response has gone off to celebrate the New Year and I’d like to know that we are well and truly alone before I do what I would like to do to you.” John growled, pulling Sherlock closer. The doctor’s hands snaked around to the front of the bulky uniform trousers sliding them down Sherlock’s thighs. His fingers brushed against the bulge in his lover’s jeans pulling a deep moan from the man in his lap.

“It appears,” Sherlock smirked “I have a bit of swelling, Doctor.”

“Mmmm I believe I can help alleviate that.” he purred raising his hips to rub his own insistent erection against Sherlock’s bum.

“Oh John, yes.”

“Up.” the shorter man shifted Sherlock from his lap, grasping for the flies on his jeans as he moved to stand between the doctor’s legs. As John slid the denim down his lover’s pale thighs he brushed his fingers against the soft damp cotton of black briefs. Calloused but gentle fingers massaged up Sherlock’s thighs, back to his hips as the taller man kicked off his trousers and jeans. John hooked his thumbs into the elastic at Sherlock’s waist and caught his breath. Looking up to his lover’s face for assurance, he found blown pupils and a mouth open in silent moaning. He looked debauched and desperate like this.

“Sherlock? Are you...” John began but trailed off.

“Before you say anything ignorant about how filthy and wrong this is or how concerned you are that I will regret it like the pub kiss, know this.” Sherlock leaned forward, locking eyes with John. “The only reason I regret the pub is that I cannot remember it. I have not deleted a single memory with you John, and I do not intend to start now.”

“Fair enough.” the navy clad doctor replied. “Then I will just have to make sure you can’t forget tonight.” He pulled Sherlock back into his lap, rubbing their erections together in delicious friction as he reclaimed his boyfriend’s mouth. Insistent, wet and sloppy.

Grabbing tight to Sherlock’s arse, he flipped them around, seating the taller man back on the sofa and kneeling down between his legs. John kissed each knobby knee and snaked his fingers up each thigh, hooking his thumbs into the elastic at Sherlock’s hips. The taller man whined softly in anticipation. His cock strained against his pants. “God, you’re beautiful like this.” John whispered across Sherlock’s belly. He slowly pulled the soft black cotton down, freeing the dripping cock from its prison and sucked in a breath. He had seen Sherlock naked before, but only after showers and never rock hard. It was more magnificent than John had dreamed. Tall and purple and urgent. Compelled by gut motivation John leaned forward and licked his tongue up the member from base to tip.

“Hnng.. yes.”

Looking up to find his lovers eyes, John lowered his head and took Sherlock in to the hilt. Hollowing his cheeks and swallowing hard. The detective threw his head back into the sofa and moaned. His hands flew up to clutch at short blonde hairs, rough and insistent. John sucked harder, flicking his tongue around the head, teasing and lapping up precum. He moved his hands to caress his lover’s bollocks, rolling them in his palm a beat. Then shifted to Sherlock’s straining pants to pull them off completely, freeing his legs to spread wider.

John continued sucking long and slow, teasing delicious sounds from Sherlock. Nudging his lover’s legs further apart and pulling him forward, he let his fingers trail down past the man’s perineum and slip further back to tease his opening. Tickling soft whines from Sherlock with a few strokes before his mind caught up and the doctor froze.

“Bugger.” John huffed popping off Sherlock’s wet cock, his lips swollen and useless. “We don’t have any.. supplies. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Sherlock struggled to stop panting and looked around frantically. “My coat. Where is it? Top right pocket.”

Sherlock blushed a beat as John pulled the small bottle of lube from his discarded coat. “You naughty minx. When did you grab this?”

“The second I saw you in that bloody uniform. I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off you all day.”

“I could say the same for you. Fireman Holmes.” John winked and reached down adjusting his own erection now pushing uncomfortably to be free. Sherlock’s eyes darted down following the motion and pouted.

“You are much too dressed. Off. now.” the taller man ordered, leaning back into the sofa to indulge in the show, one hand languidly stroking his cock in anticipation.

“Yes, love.” John smirked. He took his time unbuttoning the uniform shirt, slipping it off slowly and wrenching the sweaty vest beneath it over his head. A flush crept up John’s neck as silver eyes devoured every movement. Being watched by Sherlock felt like being caught on CCTV. Naked and exposed.

“Oh no, let me.” Sherlock reached out, stilling Johns hands at his hips.

“Yes, love.” John smiled as Sherlock rose to meet him. The taller man placed his hands over John’s, pushing them to the small of his back and holding them there with a loose grip at his wrists. With his free hand, Sherlock loosened the scrub bottoms until they freely slid loose over John’s hips and pooled at his ankles. Nimble violinist fingers danced across the pulsing bulge of John’s cock pulling a low moan from the doctor.

“Oh, I do love the way you sound.” Sherlock purred, dropping his grip on John’s wrists to remove the shorter man’s pants. John had hardly kicked them off before Sherlock’s hands were gripping his arse in urgency and pulling their bodies together on the sofa. Freed erections rubbing together.

“Oh god.” John moaned into Sherlock’s bruising kisses. He could feel his lover’s still slick cock pulsing against him.

Reaching for the small bottle of lube, Sherlock spread a bit on his fingers then wriggled his hand down between them. Taking both cocks in hand he began stroking them each together. Swallowing his lover’s moans in long wet kisses. John began thrusting up in time with Sherlock’s strokes, his hands tangled in the taller man’s hair, deepening the kisses. Delicious friction of their cocks rubbing together was pushing him closer and closer to the edge. Sherlock loosened his grip, gently stroking his free hand up the doctor’s spine.

“Not yet, John. I want you to come, inside me.” Sherlock spoke between gasps.

“Yes. Yes love.” John whispered into Sherlock’s neck. Sliding off his lover’s lap and back down between his knees, John reached for the bottle of lube. Getting two fingers slicked up he gently nudged Sherlock’s legs open and pulled his bottom to the edge of the sofa. Teasing down the perineum as he massaged a finger against Sherlock’s opening. Placing soft kisses along the detective’s hips until he felt Sherlock relax and loosen up for him.

John slipped one finger inside, slowly. Working it in and out a couple times to ease in another knuckle. Sherlock elicited the tiniest whine and rocked his hips to meet John’s thrusts. Pulling his finger in deeper. The desperate man tried to reach a hand down to stroke his leaking cock for some release but the cruel doctor had stopped him and whispered, “No, hands off.”

“J-John.. more,” the writhing man begged. Never one to deny his flatmate, the good doctor gave him another finger. Scissoring him open. He pushed in deeper and deeper, the detective’s hips rocking in rhythm with him until the surgeon’s fingers found Sherlock’s prostate and teased the bundle of nerves. Sherlock keened and arched up off the sofa, his voice cracked and low. “Hnng.. John.. I want...” His mind had betrayed his vocal functions.

Something must've got through because John added a third finger, scissoring his lover wider and massaging his prostate with long, teasing strokes. When Sherlock was nearly sobbing and completely incoherent, John finally removed his hand slowly and reached for the lube.

Indulging in the cool lube on his hot cock, John stroked himself. Taking in the sight of his debauched lover almost set him off, orgasm already drawing his balls up tight and hard.

“John, please.” Sherlock begged. “Fuck me.”

“Yes love” John growled. He jerked Sherlock forward so that his bottom was nearly off the sofa and positioned himself between his legs. Lining his cock up he pushed in slowly, just the head. Gripping Sherlock’s hips, he held him steady and slowly sank himself in deeper until fully seated inside his lover

“John. Oh. Feels so good.” Sherlock moaned wrapping his legs around John’s hips to pull him deeper. John stilled for just a moment, indulging in the new feeling and tightness around his cock.

“God, Sherlock. Yes, so good.”

Slowly withdrawing almost completely, John pushed back in. And again. And again. He built up a steady pace, adjusting the angle until Sherlock’s back arched and his hands scrambled to grab hold of John’s backside, digging nails into the meaty flesh. “Hnng fuck!” Sherlock huffed.

“Yes love.” John whispered dirty into his lover’s neck and bit down hard as he slammed his cock home. Each stroke banging hard into Sherlock’s prostate. The detective keening and scratching and arching into each thrust. Begging with his body one word over and over. _More. More. More_. And John was good on delivering just that. Slamming harder, deeper until they were both panting.

The detective arched his back, a low whine escaping his lips as the world flashed white behind his closed eyes. He let out a loud moan followed by a run on string of his lover’s name. “Johnjohnjohnjohn!” Sherlock’s cock jumped untouched, spurting hot and white between them. Coating them both with come. John was right behind. The sight of Sherlock’s sticky cock pushing him over the edge. “Sherlock!” the doctor yelled, cock pulsing inside, the orgasm wrenched from his bones. Huffing in deep gulping breaths, John slid his hands from the bruising grip on Sherlock’s hips to his cradle his waist. The lovers stilled, holding tight until they both remembered how to breathe.

“John, I have never. That was the first time I have come untouched. It was, amazing.” Sherlock beamed, smiling between pants.

“Really Sherlock? It was amazing to see. We will have to do that again.” John answered. He reached behind them for his discarded vest and slowly pulled out, cleaning them both and making a halfhearted attempt to salvage the sofa before Sherlock pulled him down for naked kisses and cuddling in the wet spot.

John opened his mouth to speak when the chimes of Big Ben echoed through the empty building reminding the lovers what day it was. Both men locked eyes and burst out giggling.

“Happy New Year, Sherlock.”

“Happy New Year, John”

\------

Back at 221B, Sherlock was furiously texting Lestrade while John was rooting through the freezer. Of the three bodies found, two had been identified as Gabriella and Gabe. Lestrade was angrily fuming at John and Sherlock for going to the scene. He had heard John was there from Dimmock and deduced the rest much to Sherlock’s dismay.

Still floating on the library sex, and the surprise shower blowjob he’d received back home, John was too happy to care. Right now, all he wanted was something to ice down his bruised and horribly swollen lip.

“Sherlock, where are the ice packs?”

“Gone. Had to empty the contents last month for a case.”

“What? Why?”

“Experiment.”

John huffed and shoved aside a baggy of frozen god-knows-what to grab an ice tray. But when he pulled it out into the light, the ice cubes were a sickly sort of green that screamed _this isn’t water_.

“Bloody hell. What’s in the ice trays, Sherlock?”

“Experiment.”

John let out a long suffering _my flatmate is a mad scientist, a depraved sex on legs mad scientist_ sigh and reached deeper into the freezer. Finally discovering a box which looked untampered, John closed the door. Sniff and lick test proved positive so he took his prize and returned to the living room to sit next to Sherlock on the sofa.

Looking up, Sherlock’s eyes went wide and he dropped his phone mid-text. The naughty doctor had a cherry popsicle down his throat, most certainly not being used in a medicinal manner. When John’s tongue darted out to lick a red droplet melting down his wrist, Sherlock flushed and gasped.

“J-John, what the hell are you doing?”

“Experiment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry this Chapter came so late. Work got a bit busy this weekend. Hope all the smut was worth the wait!


	15. In Your Shoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock fully explore the range of emotions between Empathy and Sympathy.

“I should lock you both up for a week! Just to remind you that you are not, in fact, above the law.” Greg stood behind his desk scolding the two men in his office. He’d glowered at Sherlock and John until they both folded into the guest chairs so he could properly loom and brood and complain. Bitter vocabulary exhausted, he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “A package arrived for you this morning. Well it was addressed to you two, from the suspects. But seeing as how it is evidence in an open murder and now suicide case, we went ahead and opened it for you.” Lestrade smiled handing the package over. The DI sat back in his chair content that taking away that moment from Sherlock was punishment enough.

“A DVD?” John said as Sherlock emptied the contents into his palm.

“And a note.” Sherlock added unfolding the page and holding it between them for both men to read.

 

> _Dearest John and Sherlock,_
> 
> _Please give our apologies to the detectives for how we ended things. Gabriel and I looked you two up on the internet and came across your blog. Sherlock, you really are brilliant but I am sure John tells you that all the time. We believe you can and will finally bring justice to many people once you finish viewing all the evidence. It is, however, too late for us to find peace. We must atone for our sins in our own way._
> 
> _I hope that in choosing the school, we will harm fewer individuals. Everyone should be away on Holiday so the gas leak should only cause minor headaches for custodial staff before the city cuts it off. We didn’t want to injure any of the lovely families in our building, so the flat was out. Again, apologies to the Westminster staff. I do so hope our bodies do not remain undiscovered for too long and pray the post is speedy in delivering this farewell to you._
> 
> _Enclosed you will find a DVD. I compiled some video footage from an old VHS (you can find the original in my flat) and I scanned in some newspaper clippings and news stories which are related. How related, you will understand soon enough. I am certain your Detective Inspector Lestrade can help you find the cold case files on each._
> 
> _In memory of his beloved Samuel, Gabe sends his apologies and insists that I clear my name by admitting that it was he who killed both Tracy and Nicole. They have since changed their names, you will see. Gabe insisted that I include the necklace for evidence should you need it for anything or doubt his guilt. I love my brother very dearly and so I will do as he asks. You asked me who I was protecting and why, well here is your answer in full._
> 
> _In peace, we say farewell,_   
>  _Gabby and Gabriel Firenze_

“The explosion was not planned then. Perhaps a loose spark in the wiring, LFD Arson team will know by now.” Sherlock muttered, piecing together the new evidence. “The necklace was taken to the lab?” he asked.

“Yes. Confirmed as the murder weapon for Vic #1.” Lestrade replied.

“And have you watched the video?”

“Not yet. Our viewing room is still running a few decades behind. I have signed it out as evidence so you may take it home for 48 hours.”

“If there is nothing further, Inspector?”

“No, I’m done scolding you lot. Text me any new leads. I’ll be interviewing witnesses from the site.”

“Greg,” John interrupted. “Who was the third victim?” Sherlock’s eyes beamed in pride, smiling. John really was getting better as an assistant consulting detective.

“Teacher, 28. James Green. Just bad luck. He wasn’t supposed to be at the school.”

“Hamish.” Sherlock whispered as the air was knocked from him. Concern wrinkling his brow he turned to John trying to speak with his eyes. “He- John, the boy. When I found him he said he had returned to the school looking for a Mister Green.”

“I knew you were there!” Lestrade yelled in triumph.

“Of course you knew. The boy. Where was he treated?” Sherlock asked impatiently. John felt his own throat closing, reflecting Sherlock’s concern for the child who had already been through enough trauma. The news of this death should be delivered carefully.

The Inspector sifted through Witness files on his desk finding the one labeled _Took, Hamish (11)_. “Let’s see… he was treated on site by an unnamed EMS,” Lestrade read off the boy’s file, looking pointedly at John. “Then taken to Millbank Medical for stitches and to cast his broken ankle. He should still be there. I could send a few detectives over who specialize--”

“We’ll go.” John spoke abruptly. “Hamish knows us. I think it would be best to come from faces he’s familiar with and trusts.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “We can meet and speak with his parents--”

“No,” Lestrade interrupted his face fallen dark, Hamish’s file drooping in his hand. “No parents.” he clarified. “It appears our young witness is a ward of the state.”

Sherlock and John turned to face one another, making a joint decision with silent nods and tiny twitches in their pursed lips and shoulders. “It’s settled then,” Sherlock spoke for them as both men nodded in unison and turned back to face the confused DI. “We will still go speak with him. And, Inspector, please keep us informed on his situation. John, Mrs. Hudson and I would be most accommodating should he still need a home.”

____

After an emotional reunion with Hamish and promise to check back in on him in the morning, John was ready to call it a day and curl up on the sofa with his love, watching mindless telly until they both passed out. But Sherlock was full of boundless excitement and energy. As soon as they entered 221B, he was already rearranging the TV and table with their chairs and the sofa.

“I’ll get the tea and biscuits,” John spoke as he about faced into the kitchen. Stretching the ache from his tired joints, the doctor braced himself for a long night of research and put a kettle on.

“John,” Sherlock spoke suddenly behind him. Long arms warmly slipped around his waist and pulled the smaller man back against Sherlock’s chest. The towering detective leaned forward, nuzzling the crown of soft blonde hair in his grip and planting soft kisses. “I love you.” Sherlock breathed.

John whipped around to smile up at his lanky lover. There was no sarcasm or fear in the detective’s face. Only truth. John brought his hands up to caress Sherlock’s cheeks and stare, lost in those open eyes that had found him interesting enough to keep around. “I love you too, Sherlock.” Hands slipping back to grasp dark curls, John tilted Sherlock’s face down to capture his mouth in a deep kiss. They stood there, locked in a tight grip from hips to lips until the kettle whistled. John emitted one of his long suffering sighs reserved especially for cockblocking inanimate objects and released Sherlock. “Okay, love, go pop in the DVD and get our notebooks and pens, I’ll bring everything else in.”

Two mugs steeping and a small plate of Sherlock’s favorite chocolate biscuits were arranged on the small table between notes and the case files. Settling in next to his boyfriend on the sofa, John picked up a pen and flipped open his notepad in anticipation while Sherlock clicked ‘Play’ and reached over to dim the lamp.

\-----

A brilliant smile beamed across the screen. The camera zoomed back out to reveal a rather tall young man, twenties, dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit. His shoulder length chestnut hair was soft and bouncing with each laugh as he sliced a piece of wedding cake. Panning left, the camera caught sight of a younger Gabe smiling up at the taller man and getting a face full of cake and icing before smearing it on them both with a messy kiss. “Sam?” John whispered. “Most likely.” Sherlock said, eyes never leaving the screen.

The camera made its way around a large wedding reception of about two hundred guests. Everyone appeared to be enjoying themselves, delivering well wishes for Gabriel and _confirmed now_ Samuel. Near the end of the buffet table the camera operator found a frown. The white smocked caterer was looming and watching quests with all the joy of a funeral service. “Come on Tracy, where’s that smile?” the camera operator laughed. Gabriella’s voice. As Gabby zoomed in on the pout, Sherlock and John both froze. So-called Tracy was Helen Triste. Not-Helen raised her glass and plastered on a forced smile before briskly exiting the frame.

After another round of well wishers and congratulations, Gabriella was asked for a dance and the camera was left forgotten on a back table facing the kitchens. Sherlock was about to fast forward when Tracy wandered back into frame. She was talking to someone just off camera. The noise of the reception drowned out most of the conversation but Sherlock could deduce from snippets and lip reading.

“It’s disgusting really.” Tracy sneered. “Two men carrying on like this. It’s a bloody joke is what it is.”

“I know. But think of the money, Trace.” the mysterious ally said.

The caterer sighed. “Yeah. As long as the freaks want to keep throwing money at me, I’ll keep playing nice for one day.”  
John flinched at the word Donovan had made a cruel pet name for his boyfriend. Blue eyes flicked across Sherlock’s face for any sign of faltering concentration. But Sherlock was too busy deconstructing the evidence to notice irrelevant data.

“Here’s to us, Nic,” Tracy lifted her glass in toast as the other woman stepped into frame and spoke.

“Here’s hoping they both choke on that fucking cake by night’s end.” she spoke, clanking their glasses and turning towards the camera knocking back her champagne. Nicole was the second victim. The video cut off a beat then resumed on present day Gabriella.

“Now you understand why we were suspicious, I hope.” she spoke. On screen she held up a newspaper article. “I scanned all of these into a folder on the DVD so you can see them on a PC or you can just write down their names, it’s all public record.” Her eyes fell dark, sad and lost in a private memory.

“Samuel, Sam, my dear brother-in-law died that later evening. He had a severe allergic reaction to shellfish even though no seafood was on the catering menu. Case is still open. Gabe was just told there was not enough evidence and we were expected to move on.” She laughed dry and bitter. John felt his chest tighten at the thought of being told the same words.

“Now these,” Gabriella said holding up a stack of newspaper clippings. “These are the twenty-two other similar cases I found. I didn’t have the resources you do, but from what I could gather, Tracy, Nicole or both were working each wedding. It took me years to gather and by then no police would listen to me. But Sherlock. John. You two,” her eyes looked out at them, pleading beyond the grave. “I believe in you. Please help bring peace to these families.” She smiled briefly. Then the video cut off.

John looked down to his empty notepad. Pen gripped in a white knuckled frustration. Sherlock had similarly stilled beside him.

“Well, I know who we’re _not_ hiring for our wedding!” John cracked attempting to break the tension. Sherlock huffed attempting to hold in the inappropriate laugh.

“Would be quite a feat for either woman to fulfill her duties from beyond the grave.”

“Quite right,” John agreed, trading the notebook and pen for a warm cup of tea and leaning back into the sofa watching Sherlock piece together all the new information.

Sherlock’s fingers were busy flying across his phone informing Lestrade of all they’d learned. The gentle rhythm of that tap-tap-tap and a few sips of tea was all it took to drift the good doctor off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This day of the original 30 day challenge is labeled as "Genderswap". But Genderswapping is for people who think gender is binary, and sorry gentle reader but this author does not. Therefore, I decided that in the spirit of the original idea, I would have Sherlock and John both emotion-swap with various characters so they could better understand feelings.
> 
> I do hope my efforts are still as enjoyable to read.
> 
> To answer your nagging subconscious: Yes, that is an AU Sam Winchester and Gabriel. Yes, Took is the maiden name of Bilbo Baggins' mother. I did these things on purpose. :*


	16. A Different Clothing Style

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have a bit of sexy roleplay before dinner.

“Sherlock, please take a break for lunch. You’ve barely eaten these past few days.”

“Neither have you.” he threw back.

“That’s precisely why I ordered two curries you prat. Please, come sit with me a moment.” Sherlock was in need of a shower, a nap and as far as John was concerned a damn good sit down with hot takeaway. Their small coffee table was covered in newspaper clippings, cold case files and post it notes. A large map of London was tacked to the wall above the sofa. Images of the victims were taped to the right with string connected to pins marking the location of their weddings. Sherlock was focusing on four cases in particular, Nicole and Tracy had both worked the events and had used the same florist. “In a moment John, I’m thinking.”

John sighed. “I miss you.”

At that, Sherlock put his thoughts on pause to join the lonely doctor. “It’s cheating to use sentiment,” the detective winked behind a spoonful of steaming red curry.

“Not if you missed me too” John smiled.

“Any news from Hamish this morning?”

“Stitches come out in two weeks and his ankle is healing up nicely. Nurses say he has been in a pretty good mood considering. I told him you’ll come visit once you’re done saving London. He said to tell you thank you for the coat. But we should tell him you’re not actually a fireman.” Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “I believe he was already suspect when he first met me. Called me _wobbly_ ,” he pouted around the last word as John set to giggling. “I love that you’re wobbly. All your wobbly, lanky, sexy bits.”

“Oh shut it,” Sherlock teased taking a spoonful of rice from John’s plate. “Oi! I’m starving too you berk!” John swatted and missed, setting Sherlock off to laughing as well.

John’s phone rang, unfamiliar London number. He held the screen to Sherlock, “Any reason the Thatcher Performance Group would be calling me?”

“Oh! Yes, answer that. Witness, possible suspect.”

“Watson and Holmes Consulting Detective Services, how may I help you?” Sherlock arched an eyebrow at the doctor’s impromptu greeting. Slowly blowing to cool his tea, he listened intently to John’s half of the conversation.

“Yes, this is his... partner. Uh huh. Yes. Certainly. Tonight? What time? Oh. Okay and should we. Yes. Oh. Oh!” at this point John’s face had flushed crimson. “Ahem, no it’s... yeah, no problem. We will see you this evening. Thank you. Good day.” John hung up and looked down at his plate, face quickly turning hotter than his lunch.

“So… Are you going to tell me why your cheeks now match the shade of my curry or am I to deduce the truth from you?”

“A moment. Air.” John replied, closing his eyes to regain focus and breathe. “That was our, suspect slash witness’ assistant, Karl. He says that Mr. Brooks would love to speak with you but he is a very busy man and only has time between shows.”

“So we have tickets at the box office waiting for us to attend tonight’s performance, I figured that much John. Get to the part which made you blush. Is it cabaret or something?”

“Tits I can handle Sherlock.” John smirked. “Tonight’s performance is _Rocky Horror_. And we are expected to come... _dressed to participate_.”

“Ah.” Sherlock replied, leaning back in his chair.

“Ah? Is that all? Sherlock I--”

“Back in a moment, I must check something.” Sherlock interrupted hopping from his seat and slipping into his bedroom closing and locking the door behind. A moment later, he emerged in his house coat only to jump into the bathroom for a shower without a word.

John released a long sigh and finished his lunch. _Well he didn’t say ‘No.’_ The devious blond grinned, letting his mind wander back to the stocking clad fantasies he’d had all week. The previous week, an American detective had been ‘round consulting with NSY. When he and Sherlock clashed in the laboratory over a knocked petri dish, the man had threatened to “pop those suspenders right off your smug ass” which just made Sherlock laugh at the translation slip and angered the poor confused man even more. John had gone quiet as the new fantasy of Sherlock in a garter and stockings set root in the more kinky corners of his mind. Now, after finally shagging his partner, the details of what that would actually look like were all the more clear. Allowing his eyes to slip closed, John settled back in his chair imagining.

“Oh John, what naughty things are putting that smile on your face?” Sherlock cooed just behind him, hot breath on his lover’s ear. John jumped with a start, pink flush creeping up his neck and ears. Turning to face the sneaky detective, John snapped. “Damnit Sherlock, I need to put a bell--” his mouth dropped open, all words lost.

“Like it? I’ve had it since uni actually. Was sort of a big fan in my younger days.” Sherlock struck a pose in his custom-fitted Doctor Frank-N-Furter lingerie. Laced black bustier stretched taut against his chest and shoulders, silk black panties slung low on his hips and clinging deliciously to the outline of his cock. The lithe violinist’s finger’s peaked out from laced up shimmer black gloves gripping his hips suggestively but tense and nervous. Then there were the stockings. John’s eyes devoured the soft semi-transparent fabric running up Sherlock’s ridiculously long legs to where thin silk suspenders dug into the gorgeous pale flesh of his thighs.

“Oh God yes.” John finally managed to get out, rising slowly from his chair to touch the living fantasy.

“I had heels but destroyed them for a case a few years ago, would need to go get a new--” Sherlock was cut off as John grabbed and backed him against the wall in a bruising kiss.

“Sherlock, fuck, you brilliant gorgeous man. How are you real?” His hands slipped down to grip silk clad hips and pull the taller man closer.

“I could say the same for you. I’ve always had to hide this particular kink.” Sherlock sighed. His body loosening from John’s enthusiastic acceptance. The doctor’s naughty hands snaked their way down to the rapidly growing erection straining Sherlock’s knickers. He quickly unfastened one clip of the garter snapping it gently and pulling a delicious moan from the man pinned against him. Reaching for the second clip, John rutted his own clothed erection against Sherlock’s silky thigh.

“J-John! Wait. I need to keep this clean for, ah, tonight.” The doctor paused a beat, thinking, then dropped to his knees, taking a handful of black silk down with him. Sherlock gasped as cool air hit his naked cock. “Then I’ll make sure you get thoroughly cleaned up.” John smirked up with playful blue eyes, running a filthy hot lick of his tongue up the underside of Sherlock’s throbbing dick.

“Ah Ahh…” Sherlock keened, hips swaying as he wrapped one gloved hand into short blond hair. John placed his own hand over Sherlock’s guiding him to take control as he slipped the taller man deep into his mouth, sucking hard, working his tongue along the throbbing vein and circling the head each time he pulled back. “John, your mouth is so hot. Yes.” the detective’s hips rocked, fucking John’s mouth as deep as could get. Hands freed, the doctor trailed his fingers down to massage his lover’s balls and rub softly behind them trailing a hot wet path to his opening.

Slicking his fingers with saliva from his swelling lips, John rubbed gently at Sherlock’s entrance, pushing gently until one finger slipped in. Both men moaned at the new sensation, Sherlock gripping John’s hair tighter as the shorter man’s deep noises shook through him.

“John. Yesyesyes.” Nimble surgeon fingers fucked into him, faster adding a second. Sherlock’s hips pumped desperate. Straining between a desire to push back onto John’s hand and shove deeper down his open mouth. “Oh god. Don’t stop.” John added a third finger, scissoring Sherlock, pushing deeper inside until he could reach and tease that sensitive bundle of nerves. Brushing gently once, twice and swallowing hard with the last stroke. “John!” Sherlock jerked rough down his lover’s throat. John swallowed instinctively as hot cum filled his mouth. Massaging the orgasm out of Sherlock from the inside, licking his softening cock clean with numb lips and a gentle tongue he let his fingers slowly slide out and wiped the hand on his jeans, giving his own cock a taste of much needed friction.

“God Sherlock, I have been wanting this,” he gestured to Sherlock’s entire body, kissing the stocking edge around his thigh, “for over a week now.”

“A week?” Sherlock’s sex addled brain strained to make the connection. “Ah, the American. Remind me to send him a card.” John laughed, standing to kiss his lover.

_____

“Are you sure this suits me?” John asked, standing nearly naked before the mirror.

“Mmm god yes. You have the perfect body for that particular character. Believe me.”

“I always fancied myself more of a Riff Raff.”

“No. Dreadful idea. These,” Sherlock smirked, snaking a hand across John’s bum to pull and snap gold stretch pants, “suit you better. You are mine, after all.”

“Of course.” John sighed, leaning back against his lover's embrace. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [snogandagrope](http://archiveofourown.org/users/snogandagrope) is partly to blame for the inspiration. Also, Tim Curry.
> 
> Reapersun's beautiful artwork also helped with the... visuals. -->> [reapersun.tumblr.com](http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/11014315913/okay-wow-i-dont-know-how-i-feel-about)  
> 


	17. Mornings Round Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rocky Horror 2: Aftermath
> 
> John and Sherlock wreck a poor man's life then wreck their flat.

“Sherlock, please button your coat up at least!” John whinged. “He could be in at any minute!”

The devious detective huffed and crossed his stocking clad legs seductively, slipping the coat off one bare shoulder. “Uuuuummm... No.” he said petulantly, leaning back into his chair exposing a long, beautiful neck crowned in pearls. John swallowed stiffly, his face flushing hot and red. He stood quickly and easily closed the space between them, jerking Sherlock’s coat collar up with the man bundled in between. Eyes dark and primal ringed in thin circlets of blue trailed down Sherlock’s neck. John licked his lips and growled low and deep, blowing a slow hot breath across the taller man’s ear.

“Button it up now or I will bend you over this desk and fuck you until you can’t remember the chemical formula for water.” John smirked as he watched the shiver travel down Sherlock’s frame, loosening every cocky muscle in his body.

Previously devious fingers fumbled with the Belstaff’s buttons as John stroked Sherlock’s cheek and bent to lay a soft kiss against his temple. He let his own fingers trace the smudged red lips of Sherlock’s face. Leaned closer to claim those very same lips in a deep, demanding kiss. A promise to come through on his threats, before returning to his own chair.

Sherlock composed himself enough to glance over at John and reminisce the evening. The proper doctor had insisted in putting on an old pair of loose surgeon’s scrubs over his Rocky costume before meeting the suspect. His gold boots peeking beneath the baggy trouser legs were the only hint at what lie beneath. _And Oh God was that a delicious sight_. Sherlock had been grinding his half hard erection on John’s gold clad ass all evening.  The good doctor wasn’t the only member of this partnership who was ready to bend his lover over the nearest piece of furniture and wreck him. Returning to 221B later would only escalate the battle for dominance they had been playing at all evening.

“Hmmm” Sherlock let loose a deep sigh as the images flooded his mind. “Home will be interesting tonight.” John simply looked up and licked his lips pointedly. “Can’t wait.”

“Holmes! Watson!” a boisterous voice boomed behind them. “Sorry to keep you waiting. You enjoyed the show I trust?”

“Immensely,” Sherlock replied, his eyes still locked on John’s mouth until the shorter man flustered and broke gaze. “But we are here on more morbid manners unfortunately,” the detective pushed on.

John pulled the photos from his breast pocket and slid them across the desk to Ben Brooks while Sherlock inquired. “These women, Mr. Brooks, do you recognize them?”

“Yes.” he sucked in a soft gasp. “I worked with them a small handful of times back when I was a florist. But that was years ago, before we had a.. disagreement. Oh God! Tell me they didn’t finally do it? How many?” Sherlock’s eyebrow piqued at the sudden shift in the show producer’s speech.

“Twenty three.” the detective said simply, letting Brooks fill in the holes. The pale auburn haired gentleman went impossibly whiter and squeaked. Yes, that’s the sound he made. A proper tiny mouse pip of fright as his eyes shot wide open. “I - I - I look I would have gone to the police earlier. You have to understand, I was scared. Oh god. Am I going to prison?”

“No, Mr Brooks.” John soothed. “Both women are dead. Crossed the wrong family. No, we are trying to piece together what happened in the past to bring closure to the other families. Anything you can remember, anything at all would be a big help.” The doctor plastered on his best practiced professional smile.

“Mr. Brooks,” Sherlock started. “Ben.” the shaken man replied. “You can call me Ben.”

“Ben.” Sherlock began again, eyeing the clutter of the office surrounding them. “I see you keep mementos from previous employment based on the collection of nametags on the corkboard to your left covered in post cards. Do you perhaps have anything from your florist days?”

Orange curls bounced as he nodded, hopping over to a small side cabinet. “I kept some videos and photo albums of my work.” Ben talked over his shoulder, quickly sifting through a file box. “Ah! Here. These are the months I worked with them.” He handed John a file folder and a small photo album.

“Thank you.” Sherlock nodded curtly. “And may I inquire as to why you suspected this day might come?”

Ben flushed red with shame, chin dropping to his chest as he crumpled back into the chair behind his desk. “I...” he swallowed “I heard them talking twice. About killing off the couples. And giggling about it. Just the way they spoke and the look on their faces. It was off. It was much more than some homophobic joke, you know?”

“And this is why you stopped working with them?”

“Yes. After the second time, I immediately confronted them and explained that as a gay man I was very offended and would no longer do business with them. And Nicole. She jumped back like a spider had landed on her! Then Tracy, she just threw her wine in my face. Called me a ‘fucking poofter’ and walked off. They never did pay me for that last one. And I was too young and scared to push for it.”

“Understandable.” John breathed. Smiling genuine and open this time. “Thank you very much for your help. We’ll get these back to you as soon as we can.” the doctor added standing up and nodding genially at the papers and pictures in his hands as he went for the door.

“If you remember anything else, please call us.” Sherlock added, then turned to where John stood holding the door for him. “Oh! And thank you so very much for the performance this evening. It was fantastic, truly.” This time Sherlock flashed a real smile, one that lit up his eyes as he turned from the small office and swept past John down the corridor.

\-------

Mornings at 221B Baker Street were a fucking nightmare. And after last night’s desperate bid for control, the place was in a particularly bad state when Mrs. Hudson swooped in at half past nine.

“Boys? Woo hoo…” She cooed, in her sing songy voice. “Oh, what have you done to my poor carpets? And the coffee table... oh! that’s going to need repairs.” She nudged a glittery red stiletto against a gold lame boot with her toe out of curiosity when the bedroom door opened.

Sherlock emerged groggy and wobbling, his blue dressing gown loosely belted about him. Thankfully, hiding the lack of knickers and bustier beneath. But as he reached out for the kettle a glittery sequined glove mirrored his actions and he let out a huff of laughter.

“Sherlock how many times have I--” Mrs. Hudson froze. The lanky detective standing in the kitchen was indeed covered up, but peeking beneath his robe was one leg still covered in a smooth black silk stocking. And as he turned to address the unexpected visitor, she caught a fright and skittered off mumbling down the stairs. “Oh! Sorry, will knock next time. Please do lock up when you’re.. uh.. Ta!”

The groggy detective raised an eyebrow in curiosity and glanced at his reflection in the kettle’s side. This time he erupted in laughter so loud, it woke his poor sex-drained flatmate. White makeup, red lipstick and eyeliner were smeared all over his face from a mixture of raunchy wet kisses and sleepy pillow snuggling.

“Sherlock, what the buggery fu--” John yelled, stomping from the bedroom wrapped in the sheet. But once his eyes focused and caught sight of Sherlock’s face, he doubled over and joined the detective in giggling until neither man could properly catch his breath.

“We probably should clean up this place.” John commented sitting up and holding his sides. Every piece of jostled furniture and discarded clothing bringing up delicious memories as his eyes swept the room.

“Coffee first,” Sherlock said grabbing two mugs from the cabinet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to write these as fast as I can, but the boys always have other plans! Horny jerks. :[  
> _______  
> One day, when this fic is done, I'll write a proper one shot PWP about the night's.. activities. 3 pages of my hastily scrawled notes aren't going to waste!


	18. Spooning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have guests over and learn what it means to be a family.
> 
> WARNING: may cause severe d'awwabeetus.

Freshly showered and dressed, Sherlock sat at the kitchen counter stirring his coffee and watched John’s denim clad arse bobbing beside the table. “I think I kicked it under the sofa, John.” The naughty detective leaned back, licking his spoon and enjoying the show. His squirmy boyfriend was attempting to free their shoes tangled up in Sherlock’s discarded suspenders under the cushions.

“How did we even…” John sighed, wrenching the knotted ball free. “I would say ‘never again’ but that’s neither desirable nor accurate.” Sherlock said plainly as John tossed the clump of lingerie and footwear into the laundry basket with the rest of their costume pieces.

“You could help you know.” John laughed, swatting Sherlock’s feet from the table so he could pass and wash his hands.

“I could, but you know I wont.”

“You’d probably just throw everything into a box and mail it to Anderson.”

Sherlock hmmed in actual consideration. “No. Sherlock. No,” John laughed. The doctor’s cell phone beeped distracting the giggling lovers as he pulled it from his pocket.

“Lestrade,” John said wiggling the phone at Sherlock’s curious eyes. “Says he will be stopping by later with some paperwork and to go over the cold cases. Guess I’d better finish straightening up then.”

“Hmm yes,” Sherlock smirked, crossing to the sofa to lie down. “You do that.”

“Berk.”

“Idiot.”

“Love you too, Sherlock.”

The detective smiled, closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of home while John straightened up the front room.

______

“I’ve brought a surprise for you!” Lestrade called up the stairs. Sherlock bolted upright from the sofa, straightening his suit and straining his ears. There were two sets of footfalls on the steps. Too small and quick paced to be Mrs. Hudson. _Ah must be..._

“Hamish!” John exclaimed scooping the boy up into a tight hug as he opened the door. “How is your ankle?” the doctor asked.

“Better, Doctor John.” Hamish gave his cast clad foot a little wiggle and walked over to plop in John’s chair proving his ability to still walk. “Nurses say the fracture was.. what was the word? Hairy?”

“Hairline,” Greg said smiling in the doorway.

“Yeah. Hairy line. So it should only take a few more weeks to heal.”

“That’s right,” Greg said. “Hamish, remember what we talked about in the car?”

“Yeah. Dadoption.”

“Adoption. It will take some time so you will have to stay with your cousin in Cardiff until everything is done here. But I asked her if you could stay in London for the evening. So you will be staying here tonight if that’s okay with Sherlock and John.”

“Of course!” John beamed between Hamish and Sherlock suddenly flustered and filled with a desire to impress the child. He crossed to the door taking Hamish’s small overnight bag and placing it inside the bedroom with Sherlock’s LFD coat draped on top. “I’ll order takeaway for everyone in a bit. We’ll have a sit in with some tele or we can just talk until you get sleepy.”

“Anything really,” Hamish grinned up at John “I am sure I’ll like it.” Then he looked over to Sherlock. “Hallo again wobbly fireman! Thank you for the coat.” The detective smiled broadly and nodded.

John let out a laugh as he settled the Union Jack pillow beneath Hamish’s cast. “He’s not really a fireman you know. But he _is_ a hero.” The boy cocked his head then, looking at Sherlock then looking around the flat. The case files were still stacked on the small table, evidence, witness reports and post its cluttered both desks. Then his eyes landed on the map of London pinned above Sherlock’s head. Photos and string connecting each victim to a location. “Oh,” Hamish said. Eyes growing wide with wonder and excitement. “Detective? You solve crimes?”

“Sort of.” Greg interrupted, clapping the flustered detective on the shoulder. “Sherlock here helps the real police like me when we really need it.”

“Which is always.” Sherlock huffed. Greg laughed. “He is a proper genius.”

“Oh.” Hamish said again. Looking long and hard at Sherlock, considering the new information. “Well, you did save my life.” he said finally, smiling at the wobbly detective. Then jerked his head back to smile at John behind him, “Both of you. So, it doesn’t matter. I still like you.”

“So,” Greg said, clapping his hands together. “Sherlock and I need to discuss the mur-- uh.. cases. John, do you mind seeing to Hamish for tonight?”

John looked over to Sherlock, more unspoken decisions made between eyebrows, lip twitches and finally nods. “yeah, that’ll be just fine.”

______

Everyone’s belly properly filled with Chinese takeaway and tea, John had started a fire and settled on a blanket with Hamish to read through the _Children’s Encyclopedia_. He really was a bright child. Calm, good natured, and just as curious as John and Sherlock. All through supper he kept asking how the men met. How many cases they had solved. If John had ever shot any bad guys. Then his eyes had blown wide when Sherlock laughed and exposed the good doctor’s military past. He asked about everything he could lay his eyes on in the flat. The skull, the wallpaper smiley, the tacked up map of London.

After Sherlock and Greg got a bit flustered trying to cover and hide the more morbid crime scene photos, John had finally dragged Hamish off to show him the room he would be using if he came to live with them. Since the two men were properly a couple, John had moved down into Sherlock’s room. His old room was currently used as an extra lab and storage space but Hamish loved it. He spun around talking excitedly of all the things he would do to make it his own. When he asked Sherlock if he could keep a Chemistry set to use, a smile broke across the detective’s face and his own eyes lit up. That’s when Sherlock fell in love with Hamish, John decided.

Sitting beside the fire, hands teasing through Hamish’s dark curls as the boy read, John decided he loved him too. He watched as the bright blue eyes slowly drooped and fell asleep, curled up against his lap. As John looked up he caught Sherlock watching them and smiled.  
 _If this is my life now, I could die happy._

“No!” Hamish suddenly jerked awake, arms flailing. “Help please!” Sherlock and Greg both bolted up, knocking aside notes and folders. John reached out to still the boy’s shaking hands, speaking softly. “Hamish, darling, you are safe. It was just a dream. You are safe here.”

The boy blinked up at him, eyes brimmed in tears slowly coming back into focus. “Doctor John?” John smiled, leaned forward and kissed the boy’s sweat chilled forehead gently. “Yes, you are safe here.” Sobbing, Hamish crawled up into John’s lap and hugged him tightly. “The fire, and glass it was everywhere. I was stuck. And everything was so loud. No one could hear me.” John squeezed his arms tightly, rocking the boy and shushing him. “It’s okay, just a dream. A bad memory. Come, let’s get you to bed.” The doctor stood up, pulling Hamish tight into his chest. Nodding to Sherlock and Greg on the sofa that everything would be okay, he carried Hamish into their bedroom.

“Should we, I dunno, help?” Greg asked, concern still paining his face.

“No need,” Sherlock said, picking up the case file he had dropped. “John is the best person for taking care of him. He has had… similar problems.” Sherlock paused a moment, a sadness dipping his lips to a frown as he recalled all the nights John had cried out and Sherlock couldn’t be there for him. Not the way he wanted to. Back then there was still a wall of careful properness between their actions. So Sherlock had started playing the violin for John. Experimenting for several nights until he found the right sounds to sooth the moaning man back to sleep.

“Ah.” Greg said, nodding in understanding.

_____

Just after midnight Sherlock sent the DI off with a list of possible witnesses to pull in for interviews in the morning and promised to have Hamish ready for the train at 10am.

Checking the locks and stripping his coat and blouse off, Sherlock silently slipped into the bedroom. He paused in the doorframe smiling at the scene in his bed. John had curled up with Hamish tucked into his chest. Sherlock’s LFD coat gripped tightly in the boy’s arms like a security blanket. In all his years alone, the dark haired genius had never once imagined that this could be his life. He quickly changed into sleep clothes and slipped under the duvet to curl up into that warmth. One word echoing in his pounding heart as he snuggled in tight and slipped arms gently around the people he loved. _Family._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters coming tomorrow! :D Hope the schmoop fluff wasn't too much tonight.  
> Hamish finally earned his way on to the characters list! :D


	19. Teamwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pub Trivia takes an interesting turn.  
> _________  
> “Most correct answers gets to choose one object from the box I know you keep in the back of our closet,” the detective grinned, locking eyes with his lover, “and use it on the loser.”
> 
> “Oh God yes,” John sighed, all blood draining from his face to his cock.

 

“John, why tonight?” Sherlock whined but he knew exactly why. His birthday was tomorrow. Mrs. Hudson would be coming over with cake which, of course, meant Mycroft would drop by to shower the detective with his annual brotherly sentiment. Molly and Greg would probably make appearances as well. John obviously wanted a night for them.

“Your birthday,” John began then sighed “Ah forget it. You know why, you berk. Please just come out. We haven’t been out in weeks, not since the whole mistletoe thing. You don’t even have to drink. I just want you there, with me, enjoying yourself.”

“Fine. But I need to send out a few emails first.”

Sherlock had helped close the four linked cases, thanks in part to Ben’s photographs catching a rare but poisonous flower in the boutineers of all four victims. Now the detective was scouring the other cases for possible murder method links while NSY compiled the evidence against both women and unearthed their many aliases.

“Alright John, let’s go.” Sherlock smiled, closing his laptop. “I leave tonight in your hands.”  
_____

Entering the pub, John and Sherlock were already hit with a sour mood. Lestrade, Anderson and Donovan waved at them from the back. “So much for a night alone” John muttered.

“You should have picked somewhere a bit more highbrow if you wished to avoid them.”

“Git.”

“Idiot.”

“We can leave if you like Sherlock. I mean it.” The doctor’s face stiff but sincere. Even though John wanted Sherlock to have what he wanted, sometimes Sherlock just wanted what John wanted. “No. We can stay. It will be fine. Let’s go say hi before they continue to wave at us like excited tourists.” Sherlock slipped his hand into John’s, squeezing reassuringly as he pulled the concerned man toward the back tables.

“Evening.” Sherlock nodded to Greg and the others. John was still standing stiffly behind him, holding back and on alert.

“Watson. Freak.” Sally greeted, pausing as John shot daggers. “Will you be joining in the competition tonight?” _Oh shit_. John thought. _It’s trivia night._

“Oh that would be rich,” Anderson laughed. “I would love to see how much the great Sherlock Holmes knows about pop culture or football.” Lestrade kicked his forensics officer under the table and shot a nasty glare.

“It’s a good thing he has me then.” John spoke up, stepping in front of Sherlock to glare down at Anderson with challenge in his eyes. “I’m quite shit at most things, but in football and crap telly, I’m a genius.”

“A little friendly competition with London’s finest? Oh that would be delightful.” Sherlock grinned over John’s shoulder, eyes lighting up in excitement. “Come John, we can take that table.” With a final nod and sweeping of his coat, Sherlock whisked the shorter man off to a booth in the corner.

“So,” Sherlock said as the lovers removed their coats and settled in to the seat, “how do we do this trivia thing?”

“We just need to fill out the team sheet when a hostess comes by and turn it in with our answers at the end.”

Right on cue, a young blonde woman appeared to take drink orders and gave them the blank answer sheet. “Just make sure your team name is up top here and you’re at table 23, I’ve written it in the corner. Be right back with your pints.”

“Sure you’re okay with drinking tonight?” John asked nudging the taller man’s elbow playfully.

“Quite. I know my limitations and trust you implicitly. Now then, team name ideas?”

“221Behave,” John said with a wink. “For my naughty minx of a detective.” Sherlock smiled, eyes growing dark and predatory. Snaking an arm around John’s waist to pull him closer in the booth he leaned to whisper, “Care to make our own private wager, doctor?”

John flushed red, suddenly aware of how not alone they were. Tilting his head up to brush his lips along Sherlock’s chin, he whispered back, “Hmm and what did you have in mind?”

Fingers slowly trailing down John’s waist to tease his hips, Sherlock let slip a rumbling groan and pulled him even closer. 

“Most correct answers gets to choose one object from the box I know you keep in the back of our closet,” the detective grinned, locking eyes with his lover, “and use it on the loser.”

“Oh God yes,” John sighed, all blood draining from his face to his cock.

“Quiz will begin in five minutes!” the host announced. John tried his best to regain his breath and will away his dangerously obvious erection when the hostess swung by with their drinks. But Sherlock was casually rubbing his thigh and nipping at his neck so affectionately, the blushing surgeon was beginning to wish he’d worn a longer shirt. Thankfully, Anderson came by opening his mouth and instigating an argument which distracted his lover long enough for John to catch his breath.

“Alright, alright boys,” Greg said, dragging Anderson back to the NSY table. “Save it for the trivia.”

Sherlock was beaming, starting his second pint and flushed with determination as the game began. John knew that even though neither of them would really lose, Sherlock wanted a real competition and he was ready to give it to him, in a manner of speaking.

“Question one,” the quiz master started, “Which star is the nearest to Earth?”

“Oh!” John yelped attempting to snatch the pen from Sherlock. “Come on then, you can’t win by preventing me from writing you prat.” Sherlock simply smirked and wrote _The Sun_ on the first line. “You think I wasn’t listening to all your nagging about my appalling aerospace education last year?” John huffed a laugh and leaned back into the seat smiling at the man next to him.

The next few questions had them tied. Sherlock adding up the sides of a pair of dice faster than John could. John recalling who won the Rugby World Cup in 1993. They were both on their third drink, spilling a bit and giggling as they toasted to the frustrated wrinkles on Anderson’s forehead and the evil eyes Donovan was now turning against Greg.

“Halfway point now ladies and gents. Question five,” the quiz master boomed, “In which country was cricketer Ted Dexter born?”

Sherlock groaned, leaning back to throw an arm over John’s shoulder as the doctor snatched up their pen and wrote in _Italy_. Leaning dramatically into his doctor’s chest, Sherlock sighed. “Oh John, if they don’t ask more important questions soon, I fear my birthday will be spent bruised and limping.”

“Love, no matter the outcome, I fear neither of us will be very mobile tomorrow.” John laughed, tilting his head up to catch Sherlock’s lips in a quick kiss.

“Question six,” the quiz master continued. “Which organ secretes insulin?” Sherlock snatched the pen from John’s fingers and hastily scrawled _Pancreas_. “Oi! I knew that one. Doctor here, remember?”

“Of course I remember. That’s why I acted swiftly and without mercy.” Sherlock laughed picking up his pint to knock back the remaining ale. John was laughing too hard to actually care but the next three questions had Sherlock still leading by one.

“Last question,” the quiz master said voice booming now. “Who confessed to being the Boston Strangler in October 1964?”

Sherlock laughed as he wrote _Albert DeSalvo_. “And he was telling the truth. Any idiot could see that even before the DNA evidence confirmed it,” the detective muttered under his breath. John had gone still next to him, suddenly running a mental inventory of everything in that box secreted away behind old scrubs and military dress coats.

“That’s time!” the host announced, “turn in your answer sheets and we’ll announce winners for the finals round in a moment!”

“Finals?” Sherlock perked up eyes turning to John in renewed excitement.

_____

The cab ride back to 221B was charged with energy. Both men giggling and talking over one another excitedly in a booze and victory haze.

“Anderson’s face. It was perfect. John, I want that face framed and hung on our wall.”

“And when Sally slapped him for misspelling _New Scotland Yard_. Oh that was brilliant. BAM!”

“Yes, I am framing that one and hanging it up in the Mind Palace foyer right now.”

“You had a good time then?” John asked, tone slipping more serious.

“Mhmm and the night has just begun.” Sherlock winked, hopping out as the cab pulled up to their flat. John hastily paid the cabbie and rushed up the stairs behind the devious detective.

“Sher--” John barely got a syllable out before he was pushed against the door he’d just locked. Urgent lips devouring his own. Sherlock’s hungry tongue fighting for purchase, tasting every inch of the shorter man’s mouth. His hands tugged and pulled through blonde hair, trying to breathe in every atom of John until they finally broke apart to breathe.

“John, I cannot wait. It is past midnight. I am a demanding birthday boy and a greedy winner.”

“Yes, Sherlock. Anything.”

“Go shower, get clean for me. Everywhere.” Sherlock punctuated the last word with a pinch to John’s bum then released him to run off and do as ordered. Once he heard the water running, Sherlock rushed off to the bedroom to make his prize selection.

_____

“On the bed. Towel off.” Sherlock said as soon as John emerged from the bath. He was sitting in shadow in the small dressing chair facing their bed, still fully dressed. The blond nodded and obliged, dropping his towel and sitting on the edge of the bed to meet Sherlock’s gaze.

“John, you may ask me to stop at any point. Otherwise, you are only to nod or speak my name. Clear?”

“Yes Sherlock.” John agreed. His cock already half hard as the silky voice of his lover seeped into his pores. The cool air on his damp skin prickling goosebumps.

“Very good.” Sherlock said, standing, hands behind his back. “Now, on your knees, turn around.”

John could hear Sherlock behind him. Feel his eyes tracing over him. The kneeling man’s heart pounded in anticipation, senses heightened. All evening he had been imagining what Sherlock would choose but it had never crossed his mind that he’d do so while John wasn’t in the room. And he had put the box back, so there was to be no clue, no guessing.

A soft caress tickled the base of his neck. Teased goosepimples down, down to his left hip. Trailed slowly across the swell of his bottom and down the other hip. The soft whisper of thin leather strips told John exactly which teasing toy the devious detective had selected. He shivered as the small whip tendrils were worked across his thigh, inside, and up, up just teasing his opening before working back down to mirror the other thigh. As the whisper touches worked down his perineum to the back of his balls, John let a moan slip out. Suddenly his right arse cheek was smacked, stung by the leather strips.   _Ah fuck, this particular item has multiple uses._

“Only my name.” a broken baritone demanded behind him. “Now, John,” Sherlock said, gripping the smaller man’s hips and pulling him closer to the bed’s edge. “I have chosen the one allowed prize from your box, but since it is my birthday, I have also chosen one from my own. I will show it to you now, and you will let me know if you wish to continue.”

Sherlock draped himself over John, rubbing his trousered erection against the doctor’s ass as his hands came into view beneath excited blue eyes.  The violinist's fingers were massaging a weighted set of pale blue beads. Five in total, each in tapered diameter and connected by a small concave section of rubber.  John’s eyes went wide as he took in the length and girth of them.

“I bought these a few months ago," Sherlock whispered into John's ear,  "because the blue reminded me of your eyes. It was so much easier to imagine you using them on me with that thought in mind.”

“Oh God,” John let out, shivering at the thought of Sherlock using the item on himself and crying out his name. Swiftly, two swats landed on his arse this time with the whip. “Though I am flattered, that is not my name.”

John turned his head to lock eyes with his lover and nodded in assent. “Yes Sherlock.”

“Lovely,” Sherlock breathed across John’s ear and slid back to stand behind him. The friction of his lover’s suit brushing against John’s exposed skin was driving him mad. He waited, exposed and trembling.  The shorter man twitched at the tell-tale pop of lube being opened and the obscene slick sound of Sherlock warming it in his hands and on the selected toy.

Carefully, slick fingers worked the warmed lube between John’s cheeks. Massaging him, circling his entrance until John relaxed and widened his stance. “Mmm yes, let go for me love. Open up.”

“Sherlock,” John sighed barely above a whisper. The man so named rubbed the tip of the first bead to tease his lover’s hole. Pushing slowly, rubbing and teasing until it slipped in. John rocked back suddenly, taking in the second bead and letting out a loud moan as new pain and pleasure rippled through him.

Sherlock sucked in a gasp at the sight then regained himself and grabbed the whip to strike John’s bottom.  Once. Twice. Three times until he was wimpering. “I am in control tonight.” He set the tails on the dip of John's lower back and gripped his hip to hold him steady. Slowly moving the toy inside his lover, the detective began swirling small circles and gently pushing the third bead in. He watched fascinated as John’s entrance swallowed it completely producing more vibrations in the smaller man's frame.  "Sh-Sherlock" he barely croaked out between gasping breaths.

“Two more, love.” Sherlock whispered. His thumb massaging around the edge of the toy. Strumming it gently and watching rapt as tiny shivers wracked John’s frame.

“Yes Sherlock.” John was breathing heavily now.  Positively panting. His arms were shaking, threatening to collapse at any moment. Every muscle straining to keep him from rocking back into the delicious pressure. His entire being was screaming _moremoremore_ , cock strained and leaking.

“You’re so gorgeous."  Sherlock breathed, pausing a moment to take in the sight of his debauched doctor.  "If I wasn’t dying to be inside you right now, I’d keep you like this for hours.” The detective pushed again on the toy, twisting it in small circles deep, deep inside.  Slowly, thumb still rubbing at John’s entrance, working the fourth bead inside.

“Oh. Hnng.. Sherlock!” John cried, biting his lip in an effort to keep the sounds inside. Three strikes stung across his thighs pulling a small hiss through John's teeth that he tried and failed to morph into his lover's name. “Almost love. You can make it. One more and if I angle it just.. so.” John strained, swallowing every sound but “Sherlock!” as the smallest bead inside brushed against his prostate. “Yes.” Sherlock purred, leaning in closer to his lover, stealing a bit of greedy friction for his own cock. "Once the last one is fully seated inside you, that pressure will feel so very good.”

He paused just a beat to add more lube and widen John’s stance on the bed. One hand working the last bead in, gently caressing the strained muscles around the toy. The other massaging John's tender pink cheeks.  Slowly, slowly John took the toy in completely with a deep swallowed moan. Sherlock’s grip tightened at the base of the toy and on his lover’s hip.  "Careful, on your back now." Sherlock gently guided John to rolling over to his back, holding the toy deep and strained. “Here,” Sherlock said, “Keep your legs on my shoulders, open up for me love.”

“Yes Sherlock.” John was stretched to his limit now. Mind screaming for release, cock hard and tight, dribbling precum across his heaving belly. Nimble fingers were massaging the beads inside him, teasing and pushing up against every inch of him.  Sherlock leaned over his gasping lover, claimed his mouth in a wet and dirty kiss. All tongue and biting. _Please_. John begged with his eyes when Sherlock pulled back to look down at him, thrumming vibrations up the toy inside. “Soon,” he whispered, kissing his way down John’s neck, down his chest, licking across his sticky belly as the beads worked John from inside, faster, more rough and insistent.

Sherlock’s hand twisted the toy inside John, pushing up against the sensitive bundle of nerves just as his mouth swallowed the man’s cock. “Sherlock!” John cried out. Half in warning, half in surprise. The sensation was too much and his whole body gave out in a desperate shiver, cumming hot and hard down his lover’s throat. The greedy detective lapped up every drop, giving John a proper tongue cleaning and looking up at him with a devious smile.

Stealth fingers had undone Sherlock’s flies and his own hard cock was now rutting against John’s arse at the pale blue base sticking out from him. Rocking the toy inside until the doctor was keening and arched off the bed. “I’m not done with you yet,” Sherlock said, biting down hard on John’s exposed neck as he slipped the toy out in one pull to replaced the sudden emptiness with his now lube slicked member.

“Sherlock!” John scrabbled for purchase, nails scratching down the taller man's back.

"My turn," Sherlock growled, swooping down to reclaim his lover's mouth and swallow his moans.

_____

An hour later, just before both men passed out from exhaustion, the only sounds coming from 221B were a steady mix of “John,” “Fuck” and “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for something completely different. All edited and safe for public consumption. <3


	20. A Formal Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mummy Holmes never was one to throw a quiet birthday party for anyone.

“He’s your boyfriend, you talk to him.”

“He’s your brother, you’ve known him longer.”

“Sherlock, dear,” Mrs. Hudson called to the closed door. “Please come out and have a bit of cake with everyone?”

“No.” a muffled voice said from just behind the door. John pinched the bridge of his nose, sucked in every bit of frustration seeping from within and stood tall. He squared his shoulders, face set with determination and opened the bedroom door just enough to step inside and close it behind him.

Sherlock was sitting in his dressing chair, knees drawn up into his chin, blue robe wrapped around him. John smiled at the sulking silk ball and spoke softly.

“It is your birthday and I am trying to extend every ounce of patience and forgiveness, but I cannot help you if I do not understand why you are upset. Will you please talk to me at least?” John sat on the floor at Sherlock’s feet, a gentle hand reaching out in offer near his elbow.

Sherlock let loose a sigh and unfurled dramatically, draping his lanky form sideways across the armrests and turning his sad silver gaze to the patient doctor. “Oh John, you just don’t understand what going there will entail.”

“Then help me understand.” John said, one hand tentatively stroking curls from Sherlock’s forehead.

“Mummy’s parties are always too big, too loud, too crowded. And it will be the poshest of high society. I don’t..” Sherlock’s voice trailed off as he looked away from John. “I don’t know how they will treat you.” John huffed a small laugh then leaned up to kiss the concerned wrinkles from his lover’s forehead.

“Sherlock, I can take care of myself. And I’ll have you know I have been to more than one formal affair in my day.”

“Really?” Sherlock beamed, sitting up and pulling John towards his lap.

“Yes really. I know you think I’m all jumpers and boredom--”

“No, John, I--”

“Shh, it’s okay. Listen, when I got back from Afghanistan, they had this huge formal dinner with the Prime Minister. Oh sorry you got shot for Queen and country, here’s some wine and cake. It was quite posh and we all had to attend in our formal military dress uniforms for photo ops. I hadn’t worn mine since graduation. It’s stiff, itchy wool. Well, you’ve seen it. But I survived. Here,” John stopped to get up from Sherlock’s knee and walk to his bedside table.

“John what--”

“I was going to give this to you later, but I think it will help you more now.” The shy doctor handed a small red box to Sherlock, a nervous smile on his lips. “Happy Birthday love.”

“Oh.” Sherlock had seen the box a few days earlier but out of the sheerest of will had fought every urge to open it. John was slowly teaching him the benefits of surprise. The adrenaline rushing through his veins made a favorable argument as well.

Opening the box, Sherlock sucked in a sharp gasp. “Oh John, are you sure?”

“Yes.” John smiled, removing the thin chain from the box and slipping it over Sherlock’s head, burying a kiss in his dark curls. Two small round plates clanked together as they settled against his lover’s chest. “I’ve worn them long enough. And every time I had to dress up in that stiff suit, I had them underneath. The cool metal around my neck, the weight against my chest, always reminded me of who I was. Of what I am capable of. And no one could make me feel small or useless or unimportant.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock’s face lit up as he slipped the tags inside his vest and pressed the cool metal to his skin. “John, really. Thank you.” Grabbing the man before him by the hips, Sherlock pulled John down into his lap. “You. Fantastic. Brilliant. Gorgeous man.” he beamed, smothering the doctor with kisses. Hungry lips worked their way down John’s neck, nibbling and kissing as Sherlock’s hands reached around to squeeze his bum and pull them closer. A soft moan escaped the good doctor but before Sherlock could act upon it Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the door. “Could you two please save the birthday coupling for this evening?”

“Oh, right, guests.” Sherlock groaned. “Do go away!” he yelled out to his brother.

_____

“Worried were you?” Mycroft spoke from behind Sherlock.

“Shut up,” the younger Holmes sighed, hand caressing his chest where John’s tags lie beneath, soothing. Both men looked across the room at a small crowd of guests. John stood center in the tailored navy Caraceni suit Mycroft had commissioned for him last Christmas. Pale blue silk blouse beneath a matching navy waistcoat, bringing out the beautiful doctor's eyes. He moved as if he’d owned the clothing his whole life. Stood tall, shoulders squared and spoke in a boisterous voice.

“Class and tact are not inherited with fortune dear brother. Your partner has these skills inherent in him. I thought you’d have noticed by now.”

“I have. I wrongly assumed no one else would take the time to notice.” John waved Sherlock over indicating the conversation topic now required him him to tag out. Putting on his best bright smile, Sherlock gladly abandoned his brother’s nagging to join the crowd of people around John. _My John. They really are all standing a bit too close to him. Aren’t they?_

“Ah! There he is, man of the day. The one and only Sherlock Holmes.” John greeted loudly and backed away a bit to let the detective sidle center of the group. Quietly, for his boyfriend’s ears only, “How are you getting on?”

“Surviving. You?”

“Just so. Home soon love.” John winked then spoke up raising his glass. “To Sherlock Holmes, may he live another thirty, no, sixty years!”

“To Sherlock!” the guests echoed, toasting. The younger Holmes fought a creeping blush and nodded to John in gratitude as the shorter man quietly backed away to join Mycroft at the dessert table.

“You shouldn’t leave him alone for too long.” Mycroft warned, his lips betraying a laugh held in. “He needs you, even if he won’t admit it.”

“Just needed a breather. And to thank you. This suit has been a lovely hit among the more fashion obsessed guests. It is a wonderful fit, and I do look rather handsome if I may be an egoist for a moment.”

Mycroft let the secreted laughter slip. Leaning down he scooped up the shorter man in his arms, hugged him tightly and whispered, “John, thank you. For loving Sherlock the way he needs. I know you’ll take care of him. You always do.”

John blushed as Mycroft let him go. “No problem.”

Just then a slap echoed through the room followed by haughty gasps and murmurs. John snapped around to see Miss Daily storm past muttering, “that prat… how dare he… cheating? I never!”

“Oh dear,” Mycroft sighed, slipping the phone from his pocket. “It appears our Sherlock has sniffed out an affair. I’ll have the car brought around.”

_____

Back at 221B, John and Sherlock smiled down at the detective’s phone.

_Dearest Brother, please accept the following news as your gift.  The necessary paperwork has been pushed through.  See that John’s old room is properly suited for the boy’s arrival next week. MH_

_Thank you.  SH_

“Happy Birthday.” John whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably didn't go "formal" enough for this prompt. But I think slipping John into a $3000 custom fitted suit is fancy enough. So suck it Mycroft. :*


	21. The Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter has violent depictions of homophobia and hate crime. If this is triggering you can skip it and I am very sorry.
> 
> John and Sherlock are confronted with the effects of chasing down the truth.

Days before Hamish was due to move into Baker Street, John and Mrs. Hudson had become obsessed with DIY. Sherlock was left to settle the remaining posthumous cases against Nicole and Tracy on his own. Though his ever present doctor was always just a text away for assistance.

“I will be painting the back room today, but Sherlock,” John slipped a worn and frayed tee over his head, “I insist you call me if that bully comes in again.”

“I’ll be fine. Lestrade says Patrick Triste was issued a warning and will be dealt with.”

“He better be or I’ll deal with him personally.”

Sherlock could tell by the ice in John’s stare that he was not joking, but the detective couldn’t help sympathizing with the young man who had called him such horrid names. The kid had just returned from serving two years in Bahrain to find his mother had not only been murdered but was now being accused of a long list of crimes. Of course he would be cross.

“I’ll let you know if anything happens.” Sherlock promised, kissing the shorter man on the cheek. John smiled, started up music on his laptop and began unfolding a drop cloth as Sherlock left.

  
_Feeling my way through the darkness_  
 _Guided by a beating heart_

Singing along as he opened the cans of paint, the doctor found his mood brightening. “Make sure you eat!” John called out to the closing door.

His phone beeped seconds later.

_Yes love. SH_

______

“Someone’s happy!” Lestrade laughed as he entered the lab that evening. Sherlock was bent over a microscope singing softly. He had been down there all day, meticulously finishing the forensics for each of the victims. “Is that Avicii?” the Inspector asked the mop of happily bobbing curls.

  
_All this time I was finding myself and I_   
_didn’t know I was lost._   


“John had it playing this morning.” Sherlock said with a big grin, still humming. “He’s painting up the back room for Hamish today.”

“Fantastic, when does he finally get to move in?”

“Friday afternoon.” Glancing up at the clock Sherlock shook his head as if he had the ability to rewind time and hastily finished writing in the last case file next to him. “I should be off. Tedious work this eating, but I made a promise.”

Dancing a little happy step across the lab, Sherlock handed Lestrade the folder he’d been writing in, still humming. “This settles the last two victims. Metal fibers match and place Tracy at the scene. I believe you will--” The detective froze, face dropping as he briskly walked to the door.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade asked, reaching behind for his gun.

“It’s nothing. Ignore me. Thought I saw a shadow.”

“Still, to be sure.” Lestrade opened the door and looked up and down the vacant hallway. “Would you like a ride back to Baker Street?” Greg offered.

Sherlock looked down the empty hallway, thought a beat and replied, “No thank you Inspector. Beautiful night out, I will just walk.” Then he flashed a big grin, and skipped off down the hallway with a dramatic whirl of his coat and resumed humming.  
______

John was curled up by the fire humming distractedly while he continued not to read the book in his lap. The paint smell had almost completely dissipated from the flat so the hard working blond had finally shut the windows and set a fire to warm the place back up. He looked at his watch for the twentieth time and sighed. Lyrics barely a whisper now as concern creeped in.

  
_I tried carrying the weight of the world_  
 _But I only have two hands_

He knew Sherlock was trying to wrap up the remaining cases swiftly so he would have the week free to spend with Hamish, but it was pushing midnight. A small beep at his elbow made the doctor jump.

_Home soon. Grabbing takeaway. Do you want anything? SH_

_Just you. J_

Releasing the breath he’d been holding in all day, John finally allowed himself to relax. Slipping the throw tighter around his shoulders, he began to read back from the beginning.

_____

  
_Wish that I could stay forever this young_  
 _Not afraid to close my eyes_

Sherlock belted out the lyrics a bit loudly as he entered the empty tube station. Belly full of curry and heart full of love and anticipation he swayed to the music ringing through his frame and waited for the train.

Slowly he stopped humming and looked around as the echo of just how empty the station was settled in his awareness. _Tuesday night, no surprise_. The detective pulled his phone out to text John when a sudden force crashed him from behind, sending the device smashing onto the tracks with a loud crack. Turning swiftly to face his assailant, Sherlock sucked in frightened breath and tried to hide his shock behind a mask as large hands grabbed him by the scarf and coat.

“That was you outside the lab today wasn’t it?” He demanded, attempting to struggle free from the vise like grip of a towering and fuming Corporal Patrick Triste. The pale green eyes of the taller man sparked with anger but only grinned. Looking down at Sherlock like he was inhuman rubbish, he gripped the Belstaff tighter, lifted the detective from his feet and threw him against the cool white tiles of the wall.

Sherlock crumpled moaning ragged across a bench, wind knocked from his lungs. His back was screaming in pain and his mind was too shocked to form anymore words. Before he could sit up, Patrick’s hands were at his throat, twisting the scarf painfully tight. A litany of hate was spewing from the boy’s mouth. "Pooffaggotqueer," he slurred the words like a prayer. His eyes looked through Sherlock as the struggling man beneath him flailed wildly for something to grab onto. “My. Mother. Was. Innocent!” Patrick screamed, punctuating each word with a harsh punch to Sherlock’s ribs.

Sherlock fought to keep the tears in his watering eyes from falling. But as the cool metal of John’s tags began to rip into the flesh of his neck, his mind flashed with visions of his lover devastated. Alone. Digging within for one last outburst of strength, Sherlock brought his legs up to kick Patrick in the shin. It was enough to startle the man and loosen his grip so that Sherlock could suck in a greedy ragged breath.

“You fucking--” Patrick reared back a fist but froze. Noise of voices echoed from the stairs. “You’re lucky this time. But I will finish this,” he sneered, spitting on Sherlock’s cheek and shoving him away as he ran up the opposite stairs.

As soon as his assailant was out of sight, Sherlock let himself cry. Heaving and sobbing as the train pulled up he rushed inside and pulled his coat up around his neck, curled into it and hid. The empty car for his ride home was both a blessing and a nightmare.  
______

John had given up attempting to read and was pacing the living room humming to distract himself. But the lyrics had lost their light and the tune was lost in fear and frustration.

  
_Life’s a game made for everyone_  
 _And love is the prize_

“Sherlock!” John gasped as he heard the front door opening. “I have missed y-- what the fuck?” Sherlock stumbled in the door. Eyes red and puffy. He was hunched over, drawing in gasps and broken breaths.

“Patrick... sends his love.” Sherlock wheezed.

John flew into action. Guiding his lover to the sofa, he stripped the coat and scarf away, tossing them aside and began checking for breaks. “Sherlock. Sherlock stay with me. deep breath in. Hold it. Okay now let it out.” _Two broken ribs, possibly more._

“I… my phone…” Sherlock gasped, barely above a whisper.

“Shut up. Don’t talk. Don't fucking talk, please.” John’s hands flew to Sherlock’s shirt collar where small blood stains streaked the silk. He unbuttoned the detective’s shirt, sucking in a gasp at the dark purple bruises forming along his ribs. Propping him up with pillows at either side, John stood up. “Stay here, do not move. Do not speak just breathe. Just,” John choked, his own eyes watering as he swallowed the lump welling in his throat. “Just live Sherlock. For god’s sake.”

Storming across the room, John snatched his phone from the table and quickly fired off texts to Lestrade and Mycroft. Then he called for an ambulance and hung up, walking back to collapse at his partner’s feet.

“Okay, love, stay with me,” John spoke sternly. “We are going to go downstairs in a moment and take you to the Hospital. Once I know you are alive you are going to tell me exactly what happened. Between myself, Greg and your brother we will find this bastard and end him.”

Sherlock looked up into John’s eyes and tried to smile away some of the fear and worry but every tiny movement was screaming in his bones and shooting fire up his nerves. “I love you,” he managed in a tired breath.

“I love you too, now shut up.” John replied, laying a gentle kiss at Sherlock’s temple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was painful to write. I had to keep walking away from the PC. I promise things will get better. But they may get really, really bad first. #pleasedonthateme


	22. Boiled, Steamed, Fried

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home and friendship can heal most things. For everything else, there is food and alcohol.

John was curled up into himself in a small chair at Sherlock’s bedside. He had dropped the medical journal he’d read aloud for his sleeping love before nodding off himself. Three days had passed and everyone was on edge. Police were stationed throughout the hospital and Mycroft’s own people kept watch as well.

“How long has he been here?” Greg asked settling into a seat next to Mycroft.

“Every night since. You know he won’t go home.”

“Anything on the CCTV?”

“Just the attack,” Mycroft paused. He shouldn’t have watched the video. Even trying to detach himself emotionally and imagine it was someone else, even then, it was painful. No one should be treated that way. Seeing his baby brother, loomed over and tossed about, he was hesitant to talk about it. Too many bad memories. Mummy and Daddy shuffling Sherlock from school to school. Greg’s eyes caught his, twinged in concern.

“It’s okay you don’t have to.” The DI reassured with a gentle tap on the shoulder. “We didn’t find much either. He just returned to London so no address or known friends. His mother’s house is still empty, father deceased. No one has seen the kid since he was shipped out. Most people we talked to didn’t even know he was back yet. Have Sally chasing down a few known military associates, though most of the men he served with are dead now.”

“He can’t hide forever.”

“But if he’s smart, he’ll stay gone.” Lestrade sneered, ice shooting through his veins. “I know I’m not the only one ready to… close this case.” Mycroft huffed a small laugh in understanding and stood to leave. “Afternoon Inspector.”  
_____  
  
“John?” Sherlock blinked awake, mind still fuzzy and drugged. He reached a hand out to the sleeping doctor only to be hindered by tubes. _Oh, right_. His chest was throbbing beneath layers of itchy bandages. Two broken ribs, several fractures but no punctured lung. He had overheard conversations about antibiotics to prevent pneumonia and pain medication dosages John promised to strictly monitor.

“Hmm. Sherlock? Oh! Sherlock! I’m here.” John bolted awake. Sliding his chair closer to the bedside, he took the detective’s hand and put on his best smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Better now.” Sherlock returned the painted smile. “Any news?”

“You can come home today, but it will take weeks to remove the bandages and months for you to fully heal. So I warn you now, I will be an overbearing shit for a while and you will just have to learn to love it.”

“I already do,” Sherlock laughed but grimaced at the pain it caused. “Anything to get me out of this dreadful place and back home. What of Hamish?”

“His cousin Mary is driving him down this evening. Mrs. Hudson is at Baker Street just in case they get in before we do.” Sherlock’s eyes met John’s and he dropped his smile. They couldn’t keep dancing around this. “And Patrick?”

“That piece of shit,” John sneered. “No, no news. How does a 193cm gorilla beast of a man just disappear?”

“We’ll find him.” Sherlock said plainly. He knew no matter how long it took, he would personally find the fucker. The people he cared about wouldn’t be safe until then.

“Okay!” John slapped his knee and stood up stretching. “I am going to fill out the discharge paperwork and get your prescriptions so we can get home. Greg is just out there,” John nodded to the Inspector. Sherlock scrunched his face up in annoyance. “I know, you don’t want to be babied, but he did threaten to kill you Sherlock. I am not going to leave you alone as long as that fucker is breathing. Understand?”

“Yes John.” Sherlock smiled. Genuine and heartfelt this time as John kissed his forehead and left. The injured detective let his hand drift to his neck and pulled the dog tags from beneath his hospital gown. He brushed his thumb across the new dark red marks along the chain. _Matching now_. John hadn’t cleaned the tags since he’d been shot. Sherlock noticed while getting dressed for his party earlier in the week that small red flecks of his lover’s blood were still caught in the engraving. Morbid but endearing. Now they had both survived an attack in them. Sherlock found the thought comforting and sighed back into the papery sound of stiff pillows and stiffer sheets. _Together, we are invincible._  
_____

Back at Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson had filled the building with delicious smells. All of Sherlock’s favorite foods were baking, boiling and steaming on every available cooking surface. “I know, I know he doesn’t eat,” she had dismissed Mycroft that morning. “But that’s what big brothers are for!”

By that afternoon, the apartment was full of noise and laughter and plenty of hungry mouths. Mycroft and his people arrived first. A team installing cameras and security lines before Sherlock could insist otherwise. John and Sherlock arrived with Greg a few hours later. The lanky detective carefully sandwiched between the shorter men and assisted up to their flat.

“Welcome Home!” their guests beamed despite Sherlock’s pained face and growing annoyance. Donovan and Anderson stopped by shortly after with drinks and the atmosphere became a proper welcome home party by the time Hamish arrived.

“He’s not living with _all_ these people is he?” Mary Took had asked, concern painting her face.

“No, no. Just us.” John smiled in reassurance as he pulled Hamish in for a hug and carried the boy to sit at Sherlock’s side. “Mary,” John walked back over to grab Hamish’s bags and handed her a card. “These are our cell numbers. I want Hamish to see the family he has left. So please stay in touch.”

“I will, sir, thank you. Thank you both. Bye Ham!” She smiled and waved. “Love you!”

Hamish waved without looking up. His eyes were glued to Sherlock, taking in the bandages and bruises. “What happened to you, wobbly detective?” Sherlock shook in pained laughter at the moniker. “You really should call me Sherlock or…” he trailed off thinking.

“A bad man hurt him,” John supplied grimly, settling on the sofa to sandwich Hamish between them. “But all these good people,” he indicated the kitchen full of gnoshing and chatting friends, “are going to help us find him and lock him up.”

Hamish let the new information sink in then nodded in decision. “Good. I hope you get better fast so we can play.” He leaned up and gave Sherlock the softest hug he could muster then jumped down from the sofa and looked at John. “Can I see my room now?”  
_____

After everyone had stopped by to promise Sherlock vengeance would be served and to dote on little Hamish, they began to leave. Greg thanked Mrs. Hudson for the wonderful food and told John he would have men stationed up the road on lookout. On his way out, Mycroft informed John that cameras had been installed and insisted that any sexual activity be secluded to the few blind spots which caused a fit of choking and flustered stuttering. Mrs. Hudson was in the kitchen teaching Hamish how to load the dishwasher when Sherlock stirred.

“John,” Sherlock called his lover over to the sofa where he had been propped up like a party favor all evening. “Would you be so kind as to assist me to bed?”

“Of course,” the shorter man complied bending to supply a sturdy hand at the detective’s waist and help him stand.

“Me too, Father,” Hamish called from the kitchen. John flushed red and froze. “Can I sleep with you and Papa Sherlock tonight?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said. Meeting John’s eyes, he could see they had both been affected by the new labels. “Let’s go to bed, Father.” Sherlock beamed, tilting his head to kiss the lips he’d been missing all day.

Mrs. Hudson smiled, sighed and quietly let herself out as peace finally settled over the flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was "cooking" until I realized how many cooking words properly reflect everyone's emotions.
> 
> ~Happy Holidays everyone!~


	23. Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains harm brought to a child. If this is triggering please do not read. :[
> 
> John and Sherlock's worst nightmare comes crashing into 221B.

“This is ridiculous, John! I need to get to the Yard. I can’t think in all this. this. stuffiness!” The frustrated detective was pacing in a whirl of blue silk. Raking his fingers through dark curls, eyes darting between the door and windows, contemplating an escape route.

“Sherlock, no. And keep your voice down.” John jerked his head toward the room upstairs where, he hoped, Hamish was still sleeping.

“Two weeks, John. He could be anywhere. And now...” Sherlock dropped his voice to a whisper. “with Hamish. I cannot live with myself if something were to…” he trailed off, unable to voice the nightmare and sank in a huff into his chair by the fire.

“And _I_ could not live with myself if something happens to _you_ , Sherlock.” John spoke reassuringly, placing a mug of tea next to Sherlock before settling into his own chair. “Please, rest and heal. Greg is coming by later and you can discuss the case then.”

“I’m fine, John. I’ll _be_ fine.” Sherlock dismissed the cup at his wrist and rose to stare out the window, brooding in silence. He had barely eaten or slept in days but John knew better than to push him too often.

“I know you will be. But until then, I have to keep you safe. For my own sanity.” John sighed, listening to the quiet shuffling of their son rousing from sleep. “Both of you.”  
_____

Later that morning, Hamish was escorted to school by Donovan. Heightened security had become routine for the new family. And as much as both men would like to keep the boy at home until all danger had passed, they didn’t want him to miss out on a proper education due to overbearing worry. “Besides,” Sherlock had argued, “you and I were threatened, not him. I doubt Patrick even knows about Hamish.” Just to be safe, John insisted on top security measures and did not give up arguing until Mycroft promised to send a car to pick his nephew up each day.

John did not return to work until Hamish had his cast removed. And though he wanted to stay in the flat and dote on Sherlock, he knew constant supervision would only drive his partner mad. Once the doctor left for work, Greg popped in with news which helped lift Sherlock’s spirits for a few hours.

“Patrick was spotted at the Lion’s Head last night so he hasn’t left the country. Spoke to a few witnesses, they believe he’s staying at a hotel down in Crawley.”

“Excellent. Let’s go. I need to get out of here.”

“No, Sherlock, John would have my head. I sent a team and I’ll be driving down myself after I check some leads.”

“Ugh. fine.” Sherlock collapsed in defeat, sulking on the sofa. His face contorted, fighting the pain in his chest that threatened to give away just how right everyone was to be concerned.

“I’ll text you.” The DI smiled, trying his best to reassure Sherlock, but the detective was gone. Locked up in his Mind Palace reimagining new methods of revenge.  
_____

That night’s events would come to be a topic of debate for days. Everyone was pointing fingers at everyone else, but none so harsh as those they pointed at themselves.

At precisely 2:35am suspicious activity was spotted around Baker Street. Per protocol, Mycroft Holmes was immediately dispatched a text message to inform him.

_Black clad individual meeting suspect description seen exiting cab 1 block from location. BW1_

_Alerting SH and PD. MH_

At 2:41am suspect was spotted by LPD entering Speedy’s. Lestrade alerted via text and sent a member of surveillance in after him.

_10-38. Suspect spotted entering sandwich shop. - Wilson_

_Follow him in. On my way. GL_

_10-4. Going in. -Wilson_

At 2:44am John Watson woke to the sound of breaking glass. Jolting up from bed he stopped as his phone beeped with a new text alert from Mycroft.

_Suspect spotted in the vicinity. Sending a car. MH_

John’s phone buzzed once more before he took even one step from the bed. This time a text from Greg.

_Patrick spotted downstairs in Speedy’s. Wilson tailing him. Stay put. GL_

Sherlock’s phone was buzzing in the living room just inches from his head but he was out cold on the sofa in a haze of painkillers and too many nights without sleep. John ran into the front room shaking him awake. Finger over his lips to silence the question in bewildered silver eyes. The former soldier indicated Sherlock’s flashing phone encouraging his partner to read the texts and get caught up while he grabbed their son.

At 2:45am, John edged quietly up the stairs to Hamish’s room. Sherlock quickly read the missed texts and rose to double check the door and window locks were all still intact. Seconds later, John was heard upstairs, panicked and yelling. “He’s gone!”

Sherlock rushed to John’s side in the empty room. Broken glass was scattered all over the floor beneath the window. Hamish’s blanket had been thrown across the sill to protect against cuts but there were still small traces of blood where one or both had been scraped. Sherlock cut his hand and feet rushing to the window to deduce the flight path of the kidnapper.

John stood frozen for a full minute before his adrenaline kicked in. Nodding in decision, he ran downstairs, grabbed his coat, gun and shoes and yelled out “Stay here!” before slamming the door behind him and running out into the street.

By 2:47am John texted Lestrade. Sherlock had texted his brother.

_He took Hamish. Get him back. J_

_Hamish taken. Check back alley CCTV now. SH_

Slipping his own coat and shoes on, Sherlock went down the fire escape following the trail of glass, blanket fibers and blood up the back alley and around to the side street. Following the faint blood trail, he backed into John who opened his mouth to chastise Sherlock but was too full of concern to argue.

“Which way Sherlock?”

“There.” Sherlock pointed and took off running with John close on his heels. The taller man’s body was screaming in pain, but adrenaline counteracted it. A steady chant of _HamishHamishHamish_ was rocketing through his mind keeping him focused.

At 2:50am the men caught up to Detective Wilson leaning against a post, breathing ragged and sending out a bulletin on his radio. “10-35 suspect headed south to Marylebone. Kidnapped a small boy. Dark hair, blue eyes, age 11. Approach with caution.” Wilson looked up, face flushed from pursuit, eyes wet with guilt. “I lost him behind the Tesco,” he shouted as John and Sherlock ran past.

Tires squealed as the pair rounded the store’s corner. A large white van peeled past them, Patrick in the driver’s seat. Hamish was nowhere in sight. Sherlock took in every detail of the van he could as John lined up his shot to take out the tires before drawing back. “Fuck. Fuck! If Hamish is in there... Fuck!” Screaming in rage he unloaded three shots into the dumpster. Sherlock collapsed, heaving, sobbing. Pain in his ribs and chest finally too much for his body to take.

At 2:57am a black car pulled up behind the Tesco to collect John and Sherlock and take them back to 221B. John cradled Sherlock, swallowing his own sobs in an attempt to remain calm for them both. “We will get him back,” he whispered. For his love. For himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another painful chapter. Took me all day to get this one out. :[ Remember how I said things would get worse before they get good? I meant it. <3 SORRY LOVES!
> 
> I probably cocked up some police codes and language, I tried to use Google maps and references as much as I could. Hope I don't confuse anyone.
> 
> The person texting Mycroft as "BW1" is Brother Watch 1. He has quite a few of these people stationed all over.


	24. Struggle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Depicts violence against a child and Homophobic language. DO NOT READ if this will trigger you. 
> 
> Sherlock and John are worn thin and lashing out at one another while they continue their search for Hamish.

By sunrise Lestrade’s team located the van thanks to Sherlock’s attention to detail. Paint flecks on the bumper tracked back to a particular warehouse. But when they found the vehicle, it had been abandoned. Sherlock’s LFD coat in the back with tears along the sleeve and embedded glass from Hamish’s window.

Mycroft’s people were combing CCTV near the warehouse tracking the path of vehicles in the area for the past few hours.

John was holed up in their suddenly too small bathroom cleaning glass from his boyfriend’s feet and hands while the detective flailed about talking and gesticulating at top speed.

“Hours. We have to John. Just forty eight hours. He hasn’t contacted us though. Chances of ransom are slim. Probably motivated by other means. To hurts us. No. God I hope not. Raised by his mother, given her ideals regarding non conventional couplings. Ah! John. Oh, maybe. Good news. I hope.”

“Sherlock! Will you please. sit. still?” John jerked his lover’s foot a bit too roughly in his anger.

“Ow! John. I thought you were helping me.” Sherlock whined, pulling his foot out of the doctor’s grasp to rub his sore ankle.

“I. I’m sorry.” John hung his head. “What good news?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock carefully allowed John to continue tending to his bloodied foot, fought internally to remain perfectly still. “Oh. Patrick. If he is similarly motivated like his mother, he may be trying to rescue Hamish.”

“What?!” John laughed indignant, setting Sherlock’s glass free foot to soak in the tub of warm water and tossing tweezers into the sink with the stained flannels.

“It’s not one hundred percent,” Sherlock sighed, teasing the new bandages on his hand. “But many religious extremists do believe that children are in danger being around homosexuals. They associate people like you and I with pedophilia. Wrongly of course, but if he is of that mindset, then there is a shred of hope that Patrick will not hurt him.”

“God Sherlock, I hope you are right. I can’t even imagine--”

“Then don’t.” Grabbing John’s hand, kissing his shaking knuckles, Sherlock looked up into worried blue eyes. “Don’t. We have to hold on to this one small hope, John. I need you to.”

“I will try.” John leaned up, kissing Sherlock’s cheek. Leaning into the taller man’s shoulder and breathing in the smell of him. Arms encircling his lover’s waist, ghosting but too afraid to squeeze tightly. He tried to relax but it was exhausting. He needed Sherlock now more than ever. But in this state, John couldn’t lean on the lanky genius without fear of causing more damage.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, gripping the LFD coat in his lap. “We will find him.”

_____

Hamish woke up in darkness, scared and shaking. “Papa? Father?” No one answered. He could remember being grabbed, Papa Sherlock’s coat pulled from his grasp and thrown over his head as he was carried outside into the cold. There had been yelling behind him, fading farther away. Father’s voice drifting away as the big black shadow took off running. Then the shadow had slipped, dropping him. Pain stabbing in his head, the darkness surrounded him and he slept.

Hamish tried to feel around the room, listening for sounds. But as soon as he moved there was a stiff pull at his right arm. He was tied to something by his wrists. Legs free but weak and numb. A small sliver of blue light caught his peripheral. But when the boy turned his head to look, pain shot up and blinded him with a flash of white. Groaning, he closed his eyes and tried to think of other things until it subsided. _Papa will find me. Papa is a detective. Father will get me. Father is a soldier. Papa will save me. Papa is a genius. Father will help me. Father is a doctor._ He drifted back into an exhausted sleep. Memories of smiling faces comforting him.  
_____

“Sherlock, you have to stay here. Don’t argue with me on this.” John tried his hardest to maintain an even tone but Sherlock was digging into his already ragged nerves. “Hamish and I need you alive and healthy. The more you keep injuring yourself, the longer it is going to take for you to recover!”

“I am not a child! And I will not sit here while ours is out there going through who the fuck knows!” Sherlock was having trouble breathing, his face growing red and fuming the longer no one listened to him. _Why did no one ever listen?_

“Sherlock,” Mycroft interjected. “I will need you here with me. Doing the brain work as it were. Let John and Greg do the leg work.” Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. Wanting to continue yelling, but his bruised chest wouldn’t let him.

“I promise to text you if anything happens.” John said, grimly reminded of the echo in his mind that those very words had been the last thing spoken to him before Sherlock returned home, beaten and bloody. Cell phones were not indestructible.

“Famous last words.” Sherlock sneered, his own mind having gone down the same morbid path.

“Sherlock please...” John started. But Sherlock turned his back to him, whirled into their bedroom and slammed the door.

“Right. Afternoon then.” John was broken. Too weak to speak. Too tired to fight on so many fronts. “Mycroft.” He nodded in departure, gun check, phone check. Coat zipped, John joined Greg on the stairs and left the flat feeling empty and hollow inside. One goal rattling his mind: _find Hamish_.

_____

“Hey there little man.” The shadow had a voice. And a face. Hamish blinked his eyes open, cringing at the now blinding light. Green eyes greeted him. Glassy and curious.

“Who are you?” Hamish asked.

“I am your savior.” The stranger smiled at him, vile and toothy. Hamish did not like it.

“Where is Papa? Father?” the boy was growing scared, wriggling against the ropes at his wrists, eyes darting around the room for a door or a window.

“I will find you a new Papa. And a Mama this time. A proper family.” Patrick sneered.

“No thank you, mister, I already have a family.” Hamish said, trying to be sweet and polite. Use his proper voice like Father said was for adult company.

“No.” The green eyed monster spit at Hamish’s feet. His bright white teeth contorting into a sneer. “Those. Fuc-- No. They aren’t family. They’re trying to corrupt you.”

“What is core up?” the struggling boy asked, confused.

“It means, make you bad. Dirty. Like them.” Hamish was getting a headache. He shook his head in denial _nonononono_ but the pain spread. Patrick’s strong hands grabbed the child’s flailing legs. “Sit still. I will untie one hand, and give you water. But you have to stay here a bit, til I find you a new family.”

“But I don’t want a new family!” Hamish yelled, kicking those white teeth he hated so much. The grin faltered, bloomed red and snarled. “You little shit.” Patrick’s hand flew across his cheek, harsh and cruel. Hamish sobbed, chin drooping to his chest, hiding his eyes behind the mop of fringe. “Now look what you made me do. Can’t sell damaged merchandise. Fucking broken kid.”

It was dark again. The green eyed shadow left. Hamish drifted back into sleep with new nightmares.

_____

“Sherlock?” Mycroft called out. No answer. Not that he had expected one. A quick text downstairs confirmed his suspicions. His stubborn little brother had climbed down the fire escape over an hour ago.

_I hope you took your coat. MH_

_I’m not an idiot. SH_

_Debatable. MH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY! Q.Q
> 
> I promise promise it will get better.


	25. Absolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Chapter contains homophobic language, depictions of violence and traumatizing a child.
> 
> John and Sherlock both put their skills to the test in a desperate attempt to rescue Hamish.

A small blue hatchback was spotted leaving the vicinity of the abandoned van. Once video footage was more closely examined, Hamish was spotted unconscious in the arms of the suspect being loaded into the back seat. Mycroft left this particular detail out when passing the information along. The tiny gasp over his shoulder as Mrs. Hudson saw the images was warning enough. His brother and the doctor would be emotionally compromised if they knew.

_Blue hatchback, BCS 235S, last spotted headed S A23. MH_

John slipped the phone back into his jacket, called out the plates to Greg as they climbed back into the car. The Inspector radioed the information out, and both men headed south toward Crawley hoping someone would spot the car soon.

“If we have to check every hotel between here and there looking for this fucking car, I will.”

“I know, John. Someone will find it. We’ll get him back.”

John stared out the window. Remembered smiling blue eyes, dark curls. Then a taller, more striking set of curls with sad silver eyes took their place. Pain renewed in his chest, the guilty doctor pulled his phone back out.

_I will bring him home. I am sorry I yelled. I love you. J_

_I know you will. I love you too. SH_  
______

Sherlock exited the train at Three Bridges outside Crawley. The detective pocketed his phone and pulled his coat in tighter against the wind, cinched his scarf up to seal the fading warmth in. He paused to breathe in the place, focusing his mind on everything he could recall. Collecting every fear, worry, and imagined harm against Hamish from his Mind Palace and locked it away to make space. His hand strayed to the dog tags beneath his shirt, pushed them hard into his collarbone, focused on the pain, pulled up Patrick’s sneering face.

_Military cut, tan. A lot like John when he got back. Same haunted look. Just returned from Bahrain. We know this. Suspect file showed two years service. Mediocre marksman but excelled in hand to hand combat. High kill count but no noted acts of selflessness or heroism for others. Not like my John. No, different breed of soldier. Crawley. Something had been familiar about that._

Sherlock’s eyes flew open, looking around the station. _Three Bridges_. “Ah!” the tall man yelped and took off running. One block up the road was a small patch of grass set aside for football and rugby. Three Bridges Playing Field. Patrick had been a member of the Football Club back in his teens. Eyes darting around the field, Sherlock spotted a glint of blue back near the storage lockers. _Hatchback_.   
_____

“Car meeting description was spotted outside Crawley, near Arora Hotel off Southgate Ave.” Lestrade’s radio crackled.

“That’s not far off. Hold on!” Greg yelled out. He accelerated, siren blaring. John gripped his seat tightly, knuckles white, heart racing. His eyes focused on the passing blur of scenery.  The DI swerved between cars, laying into his horn, yelling obscenities at every obstacle.

Flash of blue caught John’s eye across a short grassy field and leaning to peer in the back window, a tall lean figure in a black coat who was trying to give him a heart attack.

“Sherlock!” John bellowed. He pointed to the field, yelling for Greg to stop and turn around. The doctor gritted his teeth, restraining every instinct to jump from the speeding car, run across the road, through the acres of grass and throttle his boyfriend to a pulp.  
_____

Sherlock flinched as sirens blared across the road behind him. No one was in the little blue car but depressions in the back seat had him concerned. A small frame had been lain across the seat for hours. Hamish had most likely been unconscious. Hopefully just sleeping, passed out from fright and exhaustion. Wrapping his scarf around his hand he broke the back window and leaned in for a closer look. Small blood stains darkened one seatbelt. Possible nosebleed or blow to the head. Position indicated injury above the neck.

Renewed concern steeled Sherlock’s shivering frame. Looking around he spotted a small group of storage units opposite the playing field. Gravel and grass had been shifted recently leading from the vehicle. Someone with a large gait had walked that way. One set of footprints. Hamish was carried, not dragged. Setting his phone to silent he sent off a text to Mycroft and approached the small structures.

_Three Bridges Playing Field. Storage Units. SH_

_Greg and John on their way. MH_

Sudden pain twisted his insides with guilt. John was going to kill him. Assuming they survived. The storage units had green slatted doors, opened from the bottom like a garage. Both were padlocked but disturbed dirt tracks told him the right one had been opened recently. He rounded the building looking for a window, peered in and sucked in a cold painful breath. Hamish was tied with bungee cords to a small storage shelf. An unopened bottle of water by his head. He wasn’t moving. The room was empty save for the boy but the car was still parked at the clubhouse so Patrick had to be near. No time to delay, Sherlock smashed the small window in, leaned across the frame and called out. “Hamish!”

“Papa?” Drowsy headed and murmuring the boy stirred, looked up and broke Sherlock’s heart. His right cheek was bruised. Puffy eyes and dried tracts gave away just how much he had cried. “Oh, Hamish. Love. I am here. Papa is here. I am going to throw you a knife. See if you can cut loose and I’ll pull you out, okay?” The boy nodded then froze.

“Papa!” Hamish yelled as a shadow descended across Sherlock’s vision. He rolled to his left, narrowly avoiding the blow to his neck, but strong hands grabbed the collar of his coat, pulling him back. Sherlock was wrenched from the window, dragged to the front of the building and held down with a crushing knee in his chest as Patrick unlocked the padlock.

Shoved inside the small room, lungs screaming in agony, Sherlock could barely breathe. He tried to shoot the boy a reassuring look as Patrick pulled cords from his pocket and tied the wheezing detective up next to him. But his face must have been too broken, too open. The child looked terrified.

“No!” Hamish yelled suddenly as Patrick wrenched the knife from Sherlock's grasp.

“Look boy. This trash is bad for you. You need a real family.”

“I have a real family!” Hamish yelled. “Leave Papa alone!”

Patrick’s towering frame blocked most of the light coming in from outside to open door. Sherlock forced himself to focus, searching the area for anything he could use. But all he had was his mind, his words. He had to buy time for John and Greg.

“Please.” Sherlock choked out. “Please just let the boy go and I will stay.”

“I don’t take orders from poofs.”

“Not. Ordering.” Sherlock wheezed. “Pleading.”

“Papa?” Hamish said softly. His eyes were tearing up, looking down Sherlock’s shaking frame. “I love you wobbly Papa.”

“I love you. Too. Precious boy.” Sherlock’s vision was tunneled, fuzzy and fading to black on the edges. Punctured lung. He was losing oxygen. Had to keep Patrick talking. Sucking in gasps Sherlock continued.

“How did you get in the flat? We had. Security.”

“Hah! I had two weeks to plan this. Once I knew you fucking wankers had a poor kid. Sandwich shop downstairs, old man there never locks up too well. Through his back door, up the fire escape. And you little fairies sleeping so heavy you didn’t even hear me until I was headed out.”

“And the van?” Sherlock pushed on. Hoping the braggart would keep talking long enough.

“Enough talking. I told you I would end this.” Patrick was not as dumb as presumed. Crossing the floor, knife gripped to slash, the bigger man’s face grew dark and predatory.

“Turn your head boy. Look outside.” Patrick sneered, glaring until the frightened child obeyed and looked away.

“Father!” Hamish yelled excitedly.

A whirl of motion. Gunshots echoed. Patrick dropped with a thud and a groan at John’s feet. The doctor smiled. “Hey baby boy. And you love,” he smirked at Sherlock. “You’re in big trouble.”

“John?” Sherlock asked. There was something in John’s eyes. Something off that his oxygen deprived brain couldn’t process. The doctor’s left hand handn’t moved from his stomach. Blood was dribbling between his fingers where a glint of metal… _Oh no. The knife._

“John!” Sherlock and Greg yelled in unison as the shorter man collapsed on top of Patrick’s body.

“Ambulance now! Three Bridges Playing Field. Three injured, two critical.” Greg was shouting into his handset. Sherlock’s vision gave into darkness as Greg’s words echoed around him. “No. No, Mycroft, the boy is safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost through the rough patch! You can make it! <3


	26. Lost in Your Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock recover side by side in the hospital and discuss their future.

John’s eyes fluttered open then squinted against the too bright glare of morning sun. He couldn’t speak, mouth dry and choking on tubes. To his left he could hear beeping. The shiff shiff of someone moving across hospital sheets in the bed next to his. Movement stilled, followed by a soft baritone whispering his name. “John? Don’t move. I’ll page the nurse.”

Tubes removed, vitals checked, rechecked and triple checked, John attempted to speak. His throat and neck were still stiff as he turned his head and choked out “Sherlock?” He attempted to roll his body but heavy bandages around his numb and throbbing waist told him it was best not to move more than his head.

Silver eyes lined in worry and puffy from lack of sleep met his gaze. “I’m here. How are you feeling?” “A bit not good. You?” “Same.” Sherlock cracked a weary smile. John could tell the man was masking pain for his sake. He had been trying to fool his live in doctor with that false smile for years. “And Hamish?” John asked. Sherlock’s smile grew, genuine and beaming. “Hamish is fine. He is staying with Mycroft right now.”

John sighed, his blue eyes regaining some of their shine as he returned Sherlock’s smile. “Thank God.” He could barely contain the joy knowing his family was alive and safe. But the holes in his memory were troublesome. He could hear the crunch of glass under his shoes as he rounded the little blue car. He could remember the fresh earthy smell of running across the grassy field. The gut punch of Patrick standing inside one of the storage sheds, knife in hand and then… blackness. “Sherlock, I…” 

“No, John don’t. We can talk more later.” John shut his mouth and just stared across at his lanky love. Minutes or perhaps hours passed in silence, just taking one another in. Appreciating the sound of the machines reminding him that Sherlock Holmes was indeed still alive. And Sherlock, that brilliant man, soaking in every detail of the man he loved. The genuine love radiating from that face. And he knew. He knew right then, that there would be no one else. “I love you.” John had whispered, soft, faint, barely audible, as his morphine drip lulled him back to sleep.

Sherlock watched, waiting for John’s breathing to settle before he pulled his phone from the bedside table and began texting his brother.  
_____

The next morning John’s morphine treatments were spaced further apart which allowed him to stay awake longer. Per Sherlock’s nagging and Mycroft’s pull the hospital beds had been shifted next to one another so they could talk and touch. Stroking his lover’s hand, Sherlock recalled the events of the previous week, helping John fill the gaps in his memory.

“Hamish was hit?!” John’s face cringed, eyes flashing dark navy in anger.

“Yes, he had bruising on his cheek when I found him, but it is mostly faded now. He told me he kicked Patrick in his ‘ugly teeth’ and made him mad.” Sherlock gave John’s hand a small squeeze.

“Hah!” John huffed. “good on him. Pity I didn’t get to kick his teeth in.”

“You shot him twice in the chest. I found that a bit more effective in conveying the message.” Sherlock leaned forward, kissing John’s cheek. Trailing kisses down to his mouth. All gentle, forgiving, full of longing. “It feels like years.” Sherlock breathed, hot across John’s parting lips. “I have missed you.”

“As I you.” John whispered, bringing their mouths together in a long breath stealing kiss.

Pulling back for air, John caught Sherlock’s eyes. He watched them flicker to his abdomen, then back up to their clasped hands on John’s chest. “Sherlock. You still haven’t told me, what happened? To me.”

“I had a knife.” Sherlock cleared his throat, guilt washing back over him, dulling the shine from his eyes. His left hand absentmindedly toyed with the chain around his neck as he spoke while his right tightened around John’s fingers. “I had a small pocket knife in my hand when Patrick grabbed me. I had intended for Hamish to cut himself free and climb out the small window. But Patrick found it in my hands when he bound me. He was going to kill me when you.” Sherlock swallowed and averted his gaze from John. “You came up behind him, shot him. But he was too quick. You were stabbed John. It went in almost to the hilt. Your left kidney was severely damaged, but saved.” 

“You can’t blame yourself, love.” John pulled Sherlock’s hand to his lips, kissing the knuckles in a soft brush of lips. “If it had been me, he’d have a gun. Our family all came out of this alive, that is all that matters.” 

“I am not sure about much after that as I was unconscious from a punctured lung and new broken ribs,” John sucked in a sharp breath. “No, no, those injuries are mostly my fault. But I couldn’t stay back at the flat. I just. I couldn’t.” Sherlock laid his head on John’s shoulder, listening to the sound of his doctor’s heart before continuing. “Mycroft and Greg said it took days. Three days before you were stable and I was awake.”

John huffed a small laugh. “We really are quite a pair.”

Sherlock grinned, left hand squeezing the dog tags to his chest and closing his eyes. “Quite.”

After John and Sherlock had their lunch of pills and broth, Mycroft stopped by to visit the pair of injured heroes. John’s heart welled up in his throat as the tall man walked in, Hamish’s tiny hand cradled in his palm. Sherlock’s battered LFD coat over his shoulders. Yellowed bruises almost cleared from his smiling face.

Sherlock had frozen, lost for words. He met his brother’s eyes and smiled. For the first time in many years, he felt genuine deep love for the man. “Mycroft. Thank you.” the detective spoke as Hamish let go of his uncle and walked around to take John’s hand.

“Father,” Hamish beamed. “How are you feeling?”

“A million times better now that I’ve seen your smile.”

“Uncle says you and Papa can come home soon. I miss you.”

“We miss you too baby boy. Come here.” John patted the bed side, shifting a bit so Hamish could sit up with him. “Tell me what you’ve been up to all week.” Hamish grinned brightly and launched into a fantastic tale about a school trip the day before to see dinosaur bones. He told John all of his favorites. Showed his father the stuffed triceratops Mycroft had given him.

Behind the happy chatter, Sherlock whispered to his brother. 

“Case closed?”

“Yes. The papers are putting their own spin on events, of course, but reporters have been rerouted through the Yard. Greg is handling the paperwork though, of course, he insists on speaking with you both when you are discharged.”

“Of course. And the flat?”

“Mrs. Hudson has taken care of everything. I sent in a crew with a new window.”

“And did you bring the items I requested?”

“Yes brother dear.” Mycroft nodded to the small bag placed at Sherlock’s bedside table. Sherlock reached out, taking his older sibling’s hand. Holding his eyes for a long while the younger Holmes finally spoke. “Thank you. Sincerely.” Mycroft smiled, broad and genuine then turned to leave.

“Hamish, love, we have to say goodbye for now. But Papa and Father will be home soon.”

“Goodbye Hamish,” John smiled. His body already refilling with warmth and light. 

“See you soon,” Sherlock waved as they left.  
_____

That evening as John and Sherlock lie holding hands and whispering to one another, Sherlock paused a beat, lost in John’s eyes. “You know, John, you really do have the most expressive eyes I have ever seen. Observation bias perhaps, as I spend much more time looking at your face than any other.” John smiled. Little wrinkles of joy pinwheeling from those glowing blue orbs Sherlock found so mesmerizing.

“The view on this end is arguably quite beautiful too, my love.” John whispered, capturing Sherlock’s lips in a chaste kiss. 

“John. I know we only talked about this in jest during the case. But, there is no one else. No other person. I do not want there to be anyone else. And after all that has happened, I know now. For certain. I only want you. Now and forever.” John’s eyes began to tear up as the conversation’s trajectory sank in. His fingers entwined tighter around Sherlock’s shaking hand.

“Sherlock, I--”

“John Hamish Watson. Will you marry me?”

“Yes. A million times yes.” He kissed Sherlock again, insistent, drowning in his taste, his smell. Unwilling to stop for air until Sherlock pulled back finally, gasping and grinning. Rolling over to grab the small velvet bag from his bedside table, Sherlock turned back to John and placed it between them.

“I had Mycroft get them made. I hope it’s not too plain for you, but I do detest yellow gold.”

Sherlock reached in and pulled out a simple platinum band. Taking John’s left hand between his palms, “May I?” John nodded, lost for words as Sherlock slipped the band on his ring finger. The detective handed a matching band to John and offered his own finger with a playful wiggle. Slipping it on, John twined their hands back together and pulled Sherlock in for another kiss.

“Once we get out of here, we can do it right,” Sherlock promised. “Big or small as you like.”

“As long as you and Hamish are there, the rest doesn’t matter.” John kissed his cheek and settled in to sleep on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Goodnight, love.”

“Goodnight, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I consider the casefic wrapped up at this point.   
> The last 5 chapters will be fluff and smut epilogues with our new family. 
> 
> ~!* Showers my readers with love and hugs~!*


	27. I Do  (Epilogue I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three months after the Crawley incident, John and Sherlock get to enjoy their wedding and honeymoon.

Hamish tugged his bowtie loose. Nervously hopping from foot to foot, he grinned at the hand on his shoulder and followed the arm up to Mycroft’s smile beaming down at him. Three months after what they simply referred to as “the Crawley incident,” John and Sherlock had decided on a small civil ceremony at Angelo’s. But that decision didn’t stop Mycroft and Mummy from showering the couple with lavish flowers, decorations, and suits. The entire restaurant was reserved for their wedding and reception. Tables and banisters were decorated in silver and ash silks. White lilies braided with white lace ribbon and a pop of color from scattered blue orchids.

Mrs. Hudson brought the cake in the back. A surprise gift she had needled from a bakery friend. Lestrade joined Mycroft by the small altar in a matching charcoal suit and orchid boutonniere. “Greg,” the elder Holmes greeted grinning, “Looking nice. Did you bring them?”

“Yes of course,” the Inspector said patting his coat pocket and withdrawing a small box. “Here,” he said kneeling in front of Hamish, “I have a very important job for you. Hold onto these until the officiant asks for them, okay?”

“Yes, uncle Greg.” Hamish smiled looking nervously to the back room where his parents were preparing.

“John,” Sherlock gasped in awe. His fiance was adjusting his powder blue waistcoat in front of the window’s reflection. “How do you still manage to take my breath away?” John laughed, whirling back from the makeshift mirror to greet his similarly attired beau. Sherlock’s dark curls framed his face and neck. The pale blue tie peeking out from his white blouse and pale silver coat. “I could say the same for you, love.” John grinned, adjusting his lover’s boutonniere. “This shade really does wonders for those devilish eyes of yours.” Sherlock stood tall, offered his elbow to the shorter man and smiled so wide every fine line of his face was strained in joy. “Ready?”

“Always,” John replied, taking his arm and turning towards their awaiting guests.  
_____

Vows exchanged, guests welcomed and thanked, John and Sherlock settled at their private table holding hands and grinning as they watched the happy faces swirling around them. Giddy on champagne and wine, John fidgeted with his newly engraved ring. “When did they even find the time? I just gave the rings to Mycroft this morning.”

“You know those two,” Sherlock laughed. “Dangerous couple of men to be on their bad side. But when you’re family, there are certain.. benefits.”

“Not complaining.” John laughed, nudging Sherlock’s shoulder with his head. He looked down at their rings, giggles softly fading into a contented sigh. The engravings were a bit- how did Mummy put it- _unconventional_. But their entire relationship from day one had broken every convention and the new husbands thought their rings were perfect.

Forever etched in platinum were three words on each band.  
For Sherlock: _Could be dangerous._  
And for John: _Oh God, yes._

The new couple danced their first dance to a violin cover of Paramore’s _Only Exception_ Sherlock had recorded for them the week before. John hummed along, singing the lyrics into his husband’s shoulder as they swayed slowly in a gentle waltz.

“You... are... the only exception.” John sang, barely holding in his tears. Sherlock tightened his grip around the shorter man’s waist and tilted his head down to capture quivering lips. Their guests erupted in applause, whistles and cheers. John flushed, suddenly remembering they were being watched. “I cannot wait to get you alone, Doctor Watson.” Sherlock breathed hot against his lover’s ear, nibbling gently. “Oh god, Sherlock.” John pushed tighter against his partner to finish the dance and hide the growing discomfort in his trousers.  
_____

“I love you too. Get to bed, darling. Good night.” John hung up his cell phone and walked out to the private deck. “Hamish sends his love. As do I.” Leaning down, the sneaky doctor stole a kiss from his lounging lover before settling next to him. Sherlock had kept his private wedding vow to wear as little clothing as possible the entire honeymoon and was now stretched out on a chaise in nothing but the tiniest black briefs.

John watched as his husband’s taut chest rose with each breath. It had only been a few weeks since all bruising and bandages were finally gone and John was grateful every day he could take in the non-labored breaths of the man he loved. Sherlock had the laptop propped up on a small table and was reading emails. Sunblock had left his pale skin radiant in the setting sun of Bora Bora. “Sherlock, love, you are going to kill me.”

“Only just.” Sherlock winked. Stretching his legs seductively in a cruel tease of pale limbs and corded muscle as he closed the laptop. He extended a hand, inviting John to help him stand. “Let’s go to bed, love.”

“Mmm, yes,” John smiled, rising to pull his lover back into the bungalow.

Sherlock’s hands were delicate but eager as he stripped John of his loose vacation clothes. The thin white linen shirt was slowly unbuttoned, followed by kisses on each new patch of exposed skin. As John slipped the shirt off down each arm, dark curls descended to the old shoulder scar, teasing and licking the rough skin. Sherlock didn’t think he would ever grow tired of tasting John’s battlescars, new and old.

His hands teased down John’s sides, pulling giggles and moans from the shorter man. The lanky genius dropped to his knees to kiss softly along his lover’s waistband. Stopping at the long scar on his abdomen. Kissing a trail along the puffy pink edges. Sherlock froze, put his cheek against the cool flesh and just listened to the rapid pulse of the man he loved. Alive. “John. I am so-- I thought I’d lost you.”

The man so named slipped his hand across Sherlock’s nape and nudged him back up to stand. “Sherlock, look at me.” Silver eyes flickered across John’s new scar, his neck, his lips, then settled finally on his eyes.

“I cannot promise you that I will never be in danger.” His hand slid up Sherlock’s arm, cradled his chin to hold their gaze steady. “But I can promise you, I will never leave you alone at home again. Whatever comes for us, from now on, we will face it together.” John tipped his head up, taking Sherlock’s lips to seal the promise with a kiss. The taller man moaned a soft whine parting his lips and inviting John’s tongue inside. They kissed deeper, pushing in to explore every space within one another’s mouths. Tasting the sea, the aloe and coconut oil mixed with the stale coffee and sweet tea of a late lunch.

John slowly eased Sherlock back towards the bed until the taller man’s knees gave in and he sat back, pulling John into his lap, not wanting to break their kiss. But the longer they kissed, the harder John ground his growing erection across Sherlock’s until they were both moaning and gasping into the air between them.

“Pants. Off.” John gasped out, pulling eager at the elastic binding his lover’s straining cock. Sherlock pushed John from his lap reluctantly, began to reach for his pants before he caught sight of the bulging linen before him. The drawstring was nearly ripped out as Sherlock wrenched offending cotton trousers away, taking John’s pants with them.

Eager lips kissed and suckled at the head of John’s cock while Sherlock shimmied his own pants off. Both men were hard and throbbing, dripping in anticipation. They hadn’t been healed or alone long enough to properly have sex in months. A few stolen blowjobs and rushed nights of frottage weren’t enough. John was practically drooling at the sight of his lover’s cock. And that dark mop of curls torturing his own prick with evil licks and nibbles was pushing him too close too fast.

“Sherlock. Ah. God.” John gasped, gripping his lover’s hair and steadying him. “Wait. Wait love. I want. I want you inside me.” Sherlock did not so much answer as growl and fling himself backwards. One deft arm stretching back across the bed to snatch lube from the nightstand.

Pulling John back down to straddle his lap, legs spread wide for him, Sherlock warmed lube across his palm and tilted his hand to coat his fingers, letting the excess drip teasingly down his lover’s crack. John’s hands found purchase on Sherlock’s shoulders and back, dipping his head to bite fresh bruises across that glorious neck while nimble violinist fingers opened him up expertly.

When John was writhing in a mix of sobs and moans, a string of _please_ and _oh god yes_ melting into his neck, Sherlock greased his cock with lubed fingers and precum. He gripped his lover’s arse, lifting and positioning him. Slowly he eased the shorter man, slick and hot over the head of his cock. Moans wrenched from both men as John carefully sank down, taking all of him.

They sat still for a beat just breathing, feeling their shared pulse, holding tight to one another. “Oh John, I have missed this. You feel so tight, so hot around me.” Sherlock groaned. His deep voice rumbling straight to John’s leaking cock between them, his hands squeezing the meaty arse around him. John shifted his hips, slowly rising, until just the tip was inside him, then pushed himself back down. He continued the slow torture, breathing heavy and wet into Sherlock’s cheek until his lover could take no more.

Sherlock jerked his hips up, pumping hard into John. Hands coming up to grip his lover’s waist as John’s back arched. The writhing doctor leaned back angling the thrusts until “Oh God Sherlock yes.” His grip tightened on the pale sturdy arms holding him up as Sherlock’s cock pushed against his prostate. Thrusting faster and harder, panting and moaning and begging one another not to stop, they came together, screaming each others names. John’s cock painting thick white stripes between them as Sherlock let go, convulsing inside.

John collapsed into Sherlock’s arms as the taller man fell back to the bed panting and grinning. “If this is married life, count me in.” John smiled, “darling, Mrs. Watson, be a dear and--” Sherlock pinched John’s bum and rolled him off to the side with a fake scowl. “Don’t make me divorce you, idiot.”

“Berk.”

“I love you too, John.” Sherlock grabbed a flannel from the nightstand, wiping them both down and pulled his husband in tight against his chest as they settled into the cool pillows and sheets. “Room service or sleep?”

“I don’t feel like putting pants on just yet, so, just a nap.” John said, nuzzling in tighter.

“I take it back. You’re a genius.” Sherlock said, kissing John’s forehead and closing his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I kinda put some personal stuff into the wedding, made myself sad and then fretted about the smuts. :[
> 
> for a laugh, this is how this chapter started:  
>   
> BAM. Poetry.
> 
> The song in my head for their first dance: [ The Only Exception - String Quartet cover](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x3yh5yhOQOs)


	28. One Wish (Epilogue II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamish's birthday presents a mystery for new fathers John and Sherlock.

John hammered the small brass plaque to the front door at 221B Baker Street then stepped back to check it was level. _Watson & Holmes Consulting Detective Svcs._ He smiled, remembering when he’d simply made up the label to answer a phone. He didn’t even think Sherlock had heard, much less remembered. But when they returned from Bora Bora and had the long serious chat about work and family and staying alive, it was decided. The newlyweds would still take cases through the blog and John accepted a part time job at NSY working on post mortems while Sherlock started taking on more cold cases from across the world during their downtime. Closing one eye to adjust his vision, John leaned back and held up a thumb.

“It’s good Father!” Hamish called from behind him. Smiling, the doctor whirled around and scooped up his boy. “Welcome home Ham. How was school?”

“Good. I haven’t made any friends yet, but I’ve only just started there.” Hamish curled into John, embarrassment flushing his pale cheeks. Small black school sack drooping in a loose grip as he sighed.

“Charming little devil like you? I don’t believe it.” John kissed the corners of each shining blue eye looking up at him.

Hamish laughed, nuzzling further into John’s collar as he was carried upstairs to the flat.

“Papa!” The duo greeted as they entered the front room. A dark mop of curls swiveled to greet them with a smile as the detective set down his violin. Hamish jumped from John’s arms and ran across the room to be scooped up in Sherlock’s for a tight hug.

“Welcome home, darling. How was your first week?”

“I like the teachers. And the grounds.” Hamish trailed off, not meeting the curious silver eyes of his Papa.

“And how are the other kids?” Sherlock’s face grew concerned as he sat them both to the sofa. Hamish looked to John for support. The doctor spoke quickly before full panic could take over his lover’s face.

“It will take some time, Sherlock. New school.” John answered from the kitchen smiling reassuringly. His eyes telling Sherlock everything he needed to relax. _No bullies. He’s just shy_. “Tea, boys?” John asked, setting the kettle on.

“Yes please!” his adorable raven haired duo answered from the sofa.  
______

“You’re sure he’s asleep?”

“Yes John, his breathing and pulse were at rest. Now why all the conspiratorial whispering?”

“His birthday.”

“Ah, when is it?”

“Next Friday,” John let out a huff and smirked down at the gorgeous head in his lap. Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa, curled into his lover’s warmth.

“Don’t give me that look. I forgot my own birthday, remember?” John laughed and leaned down to peck a chaste kiss to his husband’s lips.

“It’s his first birthday with us and according to Mary, he’s never had a proper party. I just want to make it special. Memorable, you know?” The concerned doctor’s hand trailed up Sherlock’s waist, slipped under the thin cotton tee, teasing the cool flesh while he spoke. Sherlock’s right hand was clutching at the dog tags on his chest, eyes foggy with remembrance and hardly listening. Hamish’s troubles making friends had brought up too many unhappy memories. His own lonely childhood and years of hopping from school to school while Mummy and Daddy tried their best to help him fit in. When the detective didn’t reply, John glanced down and caught his lover lost in thought.

“I’ll always be with you,” John said softly, wrapping his own hand over Sherlock’s. His eyes slowly swam back into focus. “You’re not alone anymore, love.” He was answered with a bright smile and more inappropriate crotch snuggling.

“Hnng, God Sherlock, behave! I can’t focus on birthday plans if my cock is focused on buggering you.”

“Then birthday plans will just have to wait for the morning.” Sherlock grinned, trailing predatory and insistent bites at John’s hip. His lips hot and wet, mouthing over the growing bulge in too-thin pajama bottoms.

“Oh god, yes. Yes, brilliant. Shelving it.” John stuttered out, pulling his mad lover up to his lap for deep frantic kisses. “Bedroom. Now.” He managed between breaths.  
_____

Mornings in 221B had become a daily comfort for John. Waking in Sherlock’s arms was something he believed he would never truly get used to. Then waking to the smell of fresh coffee brewing thanks to Mrs. Hudson teaching Hamish basics in the kitchen. John made toast for his two boys, kissed each of them on the cheek before settling down in his chair to read the paper.

This particular morning, John was anxiously pacing with his mug, waiting for Hamish to come back downstairs dressed for school. “John, relax.” Sherlock laughed from his desk not looking up from his paperwork. The detective was deep in a cold case from Moscow this week and had forgone his own toast for a simple cup of super sweetened coffee instead.

“Papa! Father! Good morning.” Hamish beamed, running to give Sherlock a quick hug around the waist before joining John at the table for breakfast.

“Morning Ham.” John smiled. “before Anthea gets here, we want to ask you something.”

“What?” Hamish asked around a mouth full of jam and toast crumbs. John couldn’t stifle his laughter at the cuteness of that grin before grabbing a tea towel to wipe the boy’s face.

“Your birthday is next week,” John began, Hamish’s eyes brightening up expectantly. “and we would like to know if there is anything you really want. Anything at all, and we will do our best to get it for you.”

The dark haired child dropped his smile. Stared at the second piece of toast and thought hard. _Uh oh,_ John thought, _he’s building his own little mind palace to run away to now. I’ll be doomed to a household of silence._

“I can teach you to build your own.” Sherlock smiled and winked from across the room as John’s face flushed.

“Oh bugger you, mind reader. Someone has to keep the idle banter up around here!”

“I will have to think about it Father. Is that okay?” Hamish answered, pulling John’s attention back to the table.

“Of course.” John ruffled Hamish’s hair and kissed his forehead. Grinning as he took their plates to the sink.

Sherlock’s phone chimed. “The car is here. I’ll walk him down.” he said, closing his case file and rising to grab their coats. New excitement in his step, Hamish quickly put his coat on and skipped down the stairs ahead of his Papa barely getting the “Bye Father!” out in time.

When Sherlock arrived downstairs he found Hamish staring at the new door plate. Studying the boy’s gaze, an idea blossomed in that mad mind. He winked at Anthea and waved them both off before heading back upstairs, whistling to himself and texting Mycroft.  
_____

“Are you sure it’s--”

“John. Trust me.”

“Alright…”

Soothing his nervous husband with a hug and quick kiss to the cheek, Sherlock left John to lighting the candles and rejoined their guests.

“Father,” Hamish said, meeting John’s eye as his cake and a dozen flaming candles were set before him. “I decided my wish now.” And at that, he closed his eyes, sucked in a deep breath and paused just a second to whisper the secret dream before blowing out each and every candle.

Sherlock gave Mycroft a nod as everyone cheered and wished little Hamish a happy birthday. John noticed the gesture and snaked to his husband’s side to ask what was going on.

“Trust me.” Sherlock smiled, taking a small package from his brother and presenting it to Hamish.

“Happy Birthday, love. Father and I believe this should meet your wish.”

“You heard?!” Hamish beamed up at him, taking the gift to the sofa while Mrs. Hudson sliced the cake.

John, Sherlock and Mycroft circled around the boy as he tore away blue tinsel and ribbons. John and Hamish both wrinkled their brows in confusion as the gift was revealed. Inside were a stack of papers.

“Sherlock what--”

“John, a pen please.” Sherlock stuck his hand out interrupting. Smiling with the excitement of surprise and toying with his lover.

“Here.” John said jerkily tossing a pen in annoyance.

“Hamish, darling, the choice is entirely yours,” Sherlock began, sitting beside his son, “but as you’ll see, these are--”

“Name change papers!” Hamish exclaimed, snatching the pen from Sherlock. “Yes! How did you know?”

“Papa knows everything,” John laughed, his face finally breaking out into a smile.

“Hamish Watson Holmes” the boy read aloud, smiling so wide it threatened to break his face. “Yes. Thank you. I love you.” He jumped into Sherlock’s arms, crushing him in a grateful hug.

“Thank you, Mycroft,” John whispered, giving his brother-in-law a thankful grin before joining in on the sofa hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff break :D Had a bit of shock to deal with from the Empty Hearse before I could sit and edit this.  
> 


	29. Something Ridiculous (Epilogue III)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art students are inexplicably dropping like flies so John and Sherlock have to go undercover.

“Third one Sherlock. Lestrade is probably going to pull us in on this one.”

“Third what?” the detective looked up from his microscope, noting fiber deteriorations on his clipboard before removing the safety goggles. Hamish’s science project was scattered across the kitchen, taken over by the overly enthusiastic chemist.

“You know he’s not going to learn if you don’t let him do it on his own” John laughed, holding up the paper. “Third UAL death.”

“I am merely improving upon his methods, John. If Hamish is to become a proper scientist, he will need to expand his willingness for experimentation.”

John laughed and rose from his chair. Crossing the living room to slip behind Sherlock and rest his chin between the taller man’s shoulder blades. “We need a case. You’re just getting stir crazy in the flat.”

Spinning around to grip John’s shoulders, Sherlock pulled a petulant pout and frowned down at his smiling hubby. “I am not stir crazy. I just want our son to be his very best.”

“And I just don’t want you to pressure him too much Sherlock. He needs to be free to be himself, yeah? Our job is to be here for him, not mold him.”

“I know,” the detective sighed, hugging John in tighter for a hug and coffee soaked kiss. Pulling back breathless, his pout transferred to a grin. Eyes sparked in excitement. “So, three deaths. All unexplained so far. Students. Different ages, different symptoms.” Sherlock released John and began pacing.

“First death. Charlie Palmer. 22. Male. Admitted at 2:03 am complaining of severe migraines. Dead by three from asphyxiation. Second. Rose Noble. 19. Female. Fatal head injury from a fall in the shower, no known previous medical conditions though there were signs of a suspected seizure.” Snatching the paper from John’s chair, Sherlock quickly scanned the headline.

“Third victim. Maria Mariposa. 20. Female. Fatal fall down the stairs after leaving the nurse’s station where she complained of… severe. migraines.” Sherlock’s eyes blinked rapidly, thoughts flashing past, information sorting. “John!” The detective’s fingers were already texting Lestrade as he stripped his clothes off and jumped in the shower. John was left gasping in the kitchen, aroused and excited, trying desperately to catch his breath and settle his pulse.  
_____

“Gavin.”

“Greg.”

“Whatever. I need to see the body. The new student.”

Lestrade let out a stiff sigh, melted only by John’s pleading eyebrow quirk. “Fine. Two minutes.”

“Ample time,” the detective smirked, slipping past Lestrade towards the back room and wriggling his slender fingers into purple latex gloves. John stood back and watched as Sherlock did his initial scan of the body. Only stepping in when the taller man froze and pouted. He seemed perturbed by something. Pacing and muttering.

“What is it? What do you see?”

“Not what I see John. It’s what I don’t see.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Migraines, flu like symptoms. These are tricky to diagnose even for you doctors. Too many diseases and poisons all have similar effects on the immune system as it fights to expel the foreign threat. But there are usually traces whether in the air or blood supply. Copper rings in the eyes, needle marks, scar tissue in the lungs. I’m not finding any of these. All three victims attend the same university. Therefore--”

“Communal disease or shared poison source.” John finished.

“Yes, but no. We need to go to the school. Find out what spaces and contacts they shared.”

“But wouldn’t that expose us to the source as well?”

“Whatever it is, the effects are limited or delayed. Only three students have fallen ill this week.”

“That we know of, Sherlock! You’re not the only one who avoids doctors until you’re on Death’s door.”

“It’s a risk we’ll have to take. Unless... you want more people to die.”

John glared across the table. Sherlock was getting way too good at pressing his buttons. “Augh fine! But the first sign that you’re sick, Sherlock... First sign! and we are out of there. No arguments.” The coy detective answered in a knowing grin that said he’d won.

After a few disgruntled debates with the Inspector, John and Sherlock were allowed to go undercover at Central Saint Martins College of Arts and Design as an adjunct professor the following Monday.  
_____

“Sherlock, I feel ridiculous.” John stood inside the empty classroom, fine white terry robe wrapped tightly around him and sporting his best glower behind piercing blue eyes.

“Trust me.”

“Every time you say that, I either end up naked or shot.”

“Well, then at least you won’t be getting shot.” The undercover professor winked and pulled his lover in for a kiss before their students arrived. Hands trailing down John’s back he gripped the shorter man’s arse and took full advantage of the resulting gasp to invade his mouth and deepen their kiss. Pulling back, Sherlock took a moment to enjoy the flush creeping up John’s neck before his eyes caught the clock behind him. “Five minutes. Now take your position. I promise to make it up to you this evening.”

“You damn well better.” John rasped, adjusting himself as he settled into the stool in the center of the studio.

Students began filing in, taking up the seats circling John. Empty easles were filled with large sketch pads. Sherlock leaned against the desk in the back room, watching. All three deceased students had this one class in common: _Introductory Drawing_. Luckily the professor had taken leave and was in need of a replacement for the week. Sherlock had narrowed his deduction down to two culprits. Either cafeteria food shared by all three students or a common factor in the classroom.

“Afternoon. I am Professor Watson,” Sherlock began, giving a little nod and grin to John. “I will be subbing in for Professor Adler today. According to your schedule, today’s lesson is to be life figure drawing. I will be walking around observing as you work.”

Sherlock walked between two young ladies to stand center next to John. He placed a hand on the shorter man’s shoulder and squeezed gently in reassurance before continuing and walking back to the desk. “Your model today is a beautiful specimen of the male form. Many intriguing scars, personal nicks and bruises you are encouraged to illustrate. I expect as artists you can appreciate the man before you and treat him with all the respect of a masterpiece. You may begin.”

John nodded to Sherlock and disrobed but could not meet his lover’s intense gaze. A new flush prickled up his chest at the tender words echoing in his mind and filled him with a pleasant warmth. He settled back on the stool, draped the folded terry fabric across his lap and tried his best to hold very still. His eyes focused on the back window, his heart thudding, begging the minutes to pass faster.

Professor Not-Watson began his tour of the studio. Likely culprits for poisoning were pottery dust, glaze, tainted water. All had been tested that morning upon Sherlock’s first walkthrough of the classroom. Frustratingly he could find no trace of the usual suspects. None of the shared art supplies or cleaning solvents spiked with anything unusual. On to the interrogations then.

“You will want to first measure the model, using his head size as a base. The average person is 7 head lengths tall. You will find this model is a hair shorter, closer to 6.7 heads.” Sherlock walked behind the sketching students. He could see John was making every effort to avoid eye contact with anything living. “Very good, once you have proportions set, you can begin filling in form and pose lines.”

Sherlock paused behind a redheaded woman whose hands were already coated in a thick dust of black charcoal. Her blue sketch lines were almost completely covered by a very striking rendition of John’s chest, scars and all. “Very astute attention to detail Miss…”

“Potter,” she supplied. “Thank you sir. Sorry for rushing ahead I--”

“No need to apologize. I, too, understand the frustration with slow paced instruction.”

“Thank you. Yes, I just love working in charcoal.” She set the chalks down and flipped through her sketchbook. Page after page filled with detailed contrast work. Sherlock found the focus pulled from him as he was honestly impressed by her skill. “Very lovely, yes,” he nodded, John’s curious eyes finally pulling him back to the case at hand. Clearing his throat he moved on to the next student and continued instruction.

“As you set the pose, you will want to begin filling in skeletal markers and setting the frame for details. It may help to notice the model’s clean lines along the spine. Across the shoulders. The angle of arms and legs in perfect proportion. His hip...” Sherlock trailed off, his eyes devouring John’s body in a new light. He was suddenly aware of every set of eyes looking at his doctor. Every fiber in Sherlock suddenly screaming _hide him, cover him, keep him_. His hand was shaking so he tucked it behind his back and continued. “That is, the jut of the pelvis, the defined collar and sternum. Use the bones you can see to help set up your skeletal understructure.”

Sherlock walked around the room, looking for a uniting factor between the students. Packed lunches versus campus lunch, differing colognes and shampoos. Three smokers, two cat owners, four dog owners, one pregnant, eight sexually active, one cheating on their partner. No overlaps other than this class at this school. His eyes found John’s face, searching for guidance. John’s eyes swam back into focus locking on Sherlock and offering him a reassuring smile. _I love you. You can solve this_. The detective nodded and continued his search.

“Once your skeletal outline is sketched, check for proportion accuracy. Holding a pencil or ruler up to the model can help. Remember to use the head or hand or foot size as a scale. Whichever is aesthetically easier for you to perceive.” Sherlock hovered behind a young man with slicked back raven hair. He was slumped forward, sketching smaller than the others. Choosing to work in fine pencil strokes rather than chalks or pastels, but his line work was respectable and clean. No discernable pain or discomfort in his posture. The faux professor continued circling, eliminating students who did not appear to be showing signs of illness.

“As you begin filling in muscle atop the base you’ve set forth, pay attention to the pull and stretch across the model’s frame. This particular man has detailed muscles and wonderfully contrasted crevasses for shading and...” Sherlock allowed his eyes to return to John’s body as he continued instruction. “For example, the taut sternocleidomastoid dips into the collar just so... catching light and shadow in the adam’s apple. And across the subject’s left deltoid, there is some beautiful tissue damage and fascinating scaring. Same for the lower left abdomen and again just along the hairline running up his temple where stitches-- ahem. Each of you afforded a unique angle to appreciate the markings.” Sherlock’s eyes traced up John’s jaw line, his voice tapering off yet again as his full lips and stubble pulled his gaze from the beautiful scars flooding Sherlock’s memory. _Come on now. Think. Think!_

A hand shot up in the back. “Professor? I’m not feeling well. May I be excused to the nurse?” A young blonde boy in the back was clutching his head. Raised hand dipping. Green eyes pained and pleading. _Intense migraines. Nausea. Muscle fatigue_.

“Yes of course,” Sherlock said, nodding to John and he hurried to the student’s aid. “I will walk you. John here will remain with the rest of you until I get back.” John nodded and stood to place his robe back on.

As Sherlock opened the door to exit, there was loud crash followed by John’s surprised yell. “Sherlock!”

The redhead from before had fallen over, eyes glassy. John had rushed to her side, taking her pulse and speaking calmly. “Stay awake sweetie. I’m a doctor. I’ve got you.” Looking up to find the detective still frozen in the door frame, John yelled again.

“Sherlock, get the nurse now and call for an ambulance.” Indecision had frozen his feet. But timing was crucial so John raised his most commanding tone and locked eyes with Sherlock, willing him from his trance. “Get the lead out, Sherlock!”

The detective flinched at his name, grabbed the blonde boy’s hand and rushed down the hallway half dragging him while a campus map flashed through his memory. _Nurse’s station, first floor_. At the lift, reaching out to press the down button, he saw black smudges on his fingers and absentmindedly wiped them on his scarf. Suddenly, John’s words hit him. _Lead_.

Images flashed in his mind. Miss Potter’s hands and her words. _I love working in charcoal_. Black smudges on John’s white robe where she had gripped him. Sherlock looked back down at his own palms and began texting Lestrade.  
_____

“ _Coroner’s final reports showed toxic levels of lead in all three students. Detox at the hospital spared the other students though fifteen more had to be treated before the offending charcoal brand was removed from supply lists._ John must you really write up every boring case?”

“Boring? I got to be an exhibitionist life model while you played professor and eye fucked me.”

“Touche. At least you didn’t write up what happened after class.”

“Your brother reads this blog!”

“And Mrs. Hudson.”

“And Mummy.”

Both men broke out into a fit of giggles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a fun little one shot casefic for our new Hubby Detective Agency. <3


	30. Something Sweet (Epilogue IV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PUPPY! That is all.

[excerpt from the _Personal Blog of Doctor John H. Watson_ \- May 17th]

**The Furry Friend**

Lestrade came by the flat last month to bring us a gift. One of our recent case victims had left behind a small four month old Alastian puppy. With no immediate family, the NSY had opted to train him as part of the K9 unit. At first, I didn’t see how this involved us, until Lestrade let out that everyone at the station either had allergies or family members who disliked pets, or flats which forbid them, or cats. So he’d come to ask if we would keep the small dog for a few months until he came of age for training.

Mrs. Hudson loved the idea immediately. She took to doting on the animal almost immediately. I was indifferent and more concerned about Sherlock’s reaction. I could not recall many times I’d seen him interact with animals. Usually pets were seen in relation to evidence. Hairs on trousers, scratches on the hands and the like. I believed Sherlock would complain and demand Lestrade take the puppy away.

As predicted, Sherlock was not very happy. He pointed out how messy animals were and that it should not be our responsibility to take care of any evidence (yes, he considered the dog evidence) post case. To which I replied that it might be good for Hamish and help to teach our son responsibility. He’d countered that we could easily accomplish this with a houseplant or fish. At which point Hamish returned from school and made the decision for us. The dog would stay.

Sherlock later named the puppy Anderson for reasons unknown to anyone but himself. He’d probably say it was for some rude purpose, but I doubt it. We took to calling him Andy for short and now delight in having a little guard dog around the flat. I caught Sherlock teaching him to track by smell the other evening. He claimed it was preparatory work for his Canine Unit training, but I think when the time comes to give the little guy back, Sherlock will be just as sad to see him go as the rest of us.

So all the baddies out there best be warned, a new genius dog is joining the force in a few months. And we’re training him to be a great detective.

**12 Comments**

_John. Please stop trying to deduce my intentions.  Anderson is a drooling waste of space.  The resemblance was obvious._  
Sherlock Holmes

 _Just admit it, you like him._  
John Watson

 _I shall admit no thing.  You aren't always right you know._  
Sherlock Holmes

 _I’m not always wrong._  
John Watson

_Debatable._  
Sherlock Holmes

 _Oh I will miss Andy so much when he leaves!_  
Mrs Hudson

 _Everyone will Mrs. H._  
John Watson

 _Thank you both again. I hope it hasn’t been too much trouble._  
Lestrade

 _No trouble at all Greg!_  
John Watson

 _John is too kind, a fault I have yet to amend. The NSY will be billed for food costs and carpet damages._  
Sherlock Holmes

 _Sherlock! Shut up. Greg, ignore him._  
John Watson

 _Make me._  
Sherlock Holmes

 _I intend to._  
John Watson

 _Uhhhhh…. tmi?_  
Harry Watson

_____

The flat was quiet save for the ticking of the clock, John’s newspaper rustling and Sherlock’s deductive hmm hmming. Flipping the corner of his paper down, the blonde looked across at his husband to see him sprawled out on the sofa, puppy on his chest and a concentrated stare fixed on the furry face.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“What are you doing?”

“Hmm?” He didn’t break eye contact, focusing on every twitch of the puppy’s face.

“Oh for God’s sake, stop trying to deduce the dog!”

“Andy. His name is Andy.” Sherlock sighed, finally looking up to smile at John. His hand slipped to scratch behind Andy’s ears and sweep around to allow the puppy licks of his palm.

“You know we have to give him back in five months.” John sighed flipping the paper back up.

“See? Now you’ve made him sad.” Sherlock pouted.

“For the love of--” John tossed the paper aside. “How can you be this adorable and frustrating?” Sinking to the carpet next to the detective, John’s hand joined in the petting. His head coming to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Natural talent.” Sherlock smirked. _Operation Distract John: successful._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tried my hand at John's blog for this one. Hope I didn't stray too far off from his voice. :3
> 
> Anderson:  
> 


	31. Something Hot (Epilogue V)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hot hot hot! Don't worry, ice can fix that. ;)
> 
> Let's end this on a smutty high note, shall we? <3

“You’re doing it again.” John moaned from the desk, glowering over his noon tea.

“Doing what?” Sherlock asked. The lithe detective was on his knees, staring at Andy, mimicking the puppy’s movements. Booty shakes, head tilts, hands to paws. Sherlock had spent the last two months learning how to read the dog’s reactions to various stimuli. He had compiled a rather alarming long list of hypotheses and experimental data from these interactions and was now convinced he could always tell what Andy wanted. John had formulated his own deduction about what would happen next month when Greg came by to take the dog away and it wasn’t going to be pretty.

“Deducing the do-- Andy. Listen, Doctor Dolittle, you can’t actually talk to animals.” Perhaps John was feeling a twinge of jealousy when he laced his words with such bitterness. Hamish had been gone for almost a month, having elected to spend Summer vacation with his cousins. And now that Sherlock had Andy to himself it had become a bit of an obsession. One which left little time for his husband.

“Don’t be absurd, John. I never presumed to communicate with him. But I can tell what he wants.” Sherlock rose from the carpet smiling and crossed the front room to fetch Andy’s leash by the door. “And right now he wants a walk in the park.”

“I wish you could deduce what I want that easily.” John grumbled.

“Oh but I can,” Sherock winked. “Be right back.”

John opened his laptop and lowered his head to hide a rising flush. “Berk.”

“Idiot.”  
_____

Two hours later, John awoke from his nap on the sofa to Sherlock crashing through the door and panting heavily. His lover was red faced and glowing like a boiled lobster. His vest was near transparent with sweat and stuck seductively to every dip and curve of his chest.

“Sherlock, what, how?” the sleepy doctor stuttered out.

“I lost track of time. Andy ran off after some ducks. I let him off the leash for but a moment. Stupid. I know, deduce what he wants but not the surroundings and havoc it would cause. Tedious.” Sherlock glared down at the puppy as if he expected an apology. Instead, the nonverbal little nuisance licked at Sherlock’s shoes and trotted to the kitchen noisily slurping up water.

John burst into a fit of giggles and sat up. “Oh, love, come here. I’ll get you some water and aloe. Come. Take those clothes off.”

Sherlock complied with a groan as the slick vest was wrench over his red flesh and dropped to the floor in a wet flop. “The yellow ice tray, third row, is safe for consumption. Put a couple in Andy’s water dish too. His panting suggests overheating.”

Shaking his head the shorter man laughed and opened the freezer. “Nice to know the sun didn’t fry the genius out of you.”

By the time John had pulled supplies from the ice box and made Sherlock a glass of ice water, his lanky lover was stripped bare and standing before the fireplace mirror examining the extent of his skin damage. Nimble violinist’s fingers poked and prodded at his toasted flesh pulling soft gasps from cracked lips. He looked more annoyed than pained tracing the defined U and sharp outline of red on white. “Ugh, this tan line will be ridiculous.”

“You can make anything beautiful. Come. Let’s go to the bedroom, love. Cool silk sheets and you can lie down.” He handed the sunburned man his glass and two paracetamol. Humming agreement, Sherlock took the pills and quickly swallowed down the water in greed before following John.

In their bedroom he collapsed on his back, ragged and sore, into the inviting touch of the sheets. John opened the window to let in a breeze and removed his own trousers and shirt. The diligent doctor settled a wine bucket of ice on the nightstand and bent over to kiss his lover gently on the forehead. “The aloe gel will need to cool for a bit. In the meantime, this should help.” John stepped back and pulled a damp flannel from the bucket squeezing the excess water out.

Starting at Sherlock’s forehead, gently and slowly wiping the sweat from his flushed complexion, John carefully wicked away sweat and lowered his husband’s body temperature. The cool cloth was tenderly applied along each pink patch of skin. Down his lover’s raw neck, across his shoulders and along each arm.

The flannel was returned to the bucket to soak up more water as John turned back to his lover, grinning deviously.

“John, what, ah--” Sherlock hissed in pleasure and let his eyes fall closed to the sensation as cold lips kissed across his forehead. A single icecube concealed in his cheeks kept John’s mouth blessedly cool as he traced gentle icy kisses along the flannel’s path. Sherlock arched into his touch, cock excited for the new contact.

More ice cubes were added as John allowed his lips and now his fingers to trace lines down the unburned parts of Sherlock’s body. Gooseflesh pimpling up along every dip and curve. While working the last of his lip pursed ice across Sherlock’s right hip, John was poked in the throat by an eager member.

“Oh hello there,” he smiled.

“John. Please.” Sherlock writhed, shoulder and chest burns fading into the flush of desire. He opened his eyes but for a moment to look down at John, pleading and dark.

“Oh God yes.” Reaching over for two more pieces of ice, John blew softly against the wet trail on his lover’s thigh watching the delicious shivers the chill produced. He trailed the frozen nibs across Sherlock’s thigh, dipping into the soft crease below each hip. Once the ice had completely melted, John’s tongue was almost completely numb. The cold muscle licked experimentally up Sherlock’s shaft.

“Mmm s’nice,” the prone detective murmured. Encouraged to continue, John took the cock into his blessedly cool mouth as deep as he could muster. Hollowing his cheeks and swirling that numb wicked tongue about as his head canted just the way he knew his husband liked best. Sherlock writhed and moaned beneath him.

John’s hands gripped his hips tightly, holding the detective prone on their bed as his mouth continued to tease and torture until all coolness had been drained from within and replaced with heat and want. Sherlock moaned and begged, squirming desperately. His hands pulled gently at the short blond hairs bobbing between his thighs, but the warning was unheeded. John continued sucking and licking through his lover’s orgasm until he was stilled and clean.

Wiping his lips on the back of his hand, John leaned up over Sherlock to kiss him. Avoiding the angry pink skin of his husband’s shoulders and neck, he trailed kisses from soft flushed lips, up the jaw and around to gentle nibbles on his ear.

“Aloe should be nice and cool now.” he whispered. “How are your shoulders feeling?”

“Between your brilliant mouth and the paracetamol, I had all but forgotten the flesh above my singed waist. How dare you remind me.” Sherlock pulled a mock pout, swatting John’s arse as the shorter man rose to grab the cooling gel.

“Budge up, love. Pillows behind you so I can get all the pink spots.”

Sherlock groaned but complied. John’s hands were all tenderness as each small dollop of supercooled aloe gel was smoothed into the skin. His normally rough fingers danced about delicately, barely a whisper. The dark haired genius let his body loosen, closing his eyes to get lost in the sensation of touch once more.

“My poor lobster.” John smiled as beautiful silver eyes flew open to glare at him. “Oh you know I’ll love you no matter how tan you get. You’ll always be my alabaster Adonis.”

Sherlock groaned at the sentimental moniker. “John, please stop showering me with unabashed praise. I’d prefer this,” lithe fingers snaked their way between them, brushing a thumb against the bulge in John’s pants, “to terms of endearment.”

“Why not. both?” John asked, voice rough and broken. He cleared his throat, winked and added, “Lobster love.”

Suddenly, the shorter man was flipped to his back, loomed over and pinned by hungry eyes and a predatory smile. “Oh, no, I insist on indulging just this one thing.” Sherlock removed John’s pants faster than seemed possible. Stradling and pinning the shorter man beneath him, their hips locked together, he pulled a deep groan from his lover as their cocks aligned for a brief moment of friction.

“John, I want your cock inside me.” Sherlock said deliberately, rocking gently against the heat between them. He watched with delight as the steel blue eyes locked on his lips grew dark and desperate. “But as I do not wish to subject my back nor shoulders to anymore friction today, I am going to ride you and you are going to keep your hands,” locking long fingers around John’s wrists and pulling them taut above the shorter man’s head, “up here. And be a good doctor for me.”

“Yes, Sherlock. Oh God, yes.”

“Do not move.” Sherlock said, slipping from the bed for just a moment to grab lube off the nightstand. He crawled back to the bed, straddling John’s hips and let his fingers warm up and slick with the gel. Leaning forward to capture his lover’s mouth, Sherlock reached between them and began working himself open. Every moan and stuttered breath swallowed by John’s eager lips on his.

When they were both strained and panting, Sherlock reapplied lube to his palm and began working John’s throbbing purple cock. The restrained doctor’s hands were twitching, taut with anticipation as the taller man carefully sank onto him. John groaned loudly as the sweet heat of Sherlock’s body devoured him. Every fiber of his body was fighting the urge to slam up into Sherlock and ravage him. Sherlock’s hands slipped forward as he sank down completely flush to his lover. His weight balanced on John’s hips with a sharp grip to the shorter man’s waist.

Slowly, carefully Sherlock lifted his hips, withdrawing John’s cock until just the head teased inside him. He kept the same speed pulling the shaft back inside. John squirmed, hips involuntarily thrusting tiny pumps. He was fighting so hard, restraining himself against invisible bonds, held only by Sherlock’s request. This made the detective grin deliciously. But that brilliant smile combined with tousled curls and a radiant flush was driving the poor doctor out of his mind with lust. Sherlock’s head flew back as he let loose a wild moan. He’d found the perfect spot within himself and settled with John’s cock just brushing the sensitive bundle of nerves. The sound was too much.

“Please, Sherlock. God, I need to cum.” John pleaded.

“You may place your hands on my hips, but I will still control the tempo. Understood?”

“Yes, Hnng yes.” John clawed at the permitted flesh, greedy to feel Sherlock’s pulse beneath his fingers. He traced small circles with his thumbs, gripping tight and waiting in anticipation for his lover to move.

Sherlock rocked his hips harder. Rising up and slamming back down with force, driving John’s cock right where he wanted it. The sounds between them grew louder. Slick and wet and dirty, drowned out only by shared groans of pleasure. John’s body gave in and his hips began to rock up in time with Sherlock, matching his pace.

Suddenly Sherlock froze, fully seated and trembling on John. His eyes focused for a moment and locked on his lover.

“Sher--”

“John. I want you to fuck me. Make me come without touching again, can you do that for me? I feel so close.”

“Oh God, yes.”

John tightened his grip on Sherlock and pumped up. Hips finally unleashed to slam into the deep warmth around his cock. The detective was writhing now, panting and unleashing the most delicious noises. John wanted to learn them all, draw them all out. Desperate hands dug into the doctor’s shoulders, leaving bruises. Spurned on by the pain, he slammed harder, faster, pushing down on Sherlock to pull in deeper each time.

“Yes, John, yes.” A few more swift thrusts and Sherlock’s cock spurted between them, coating John’s chest in white stripes. The sight pulled John’s own orgasm out as he shook and trembled inside his lover. Sherlock collapsed on top of the shorter man, only to hiss in pain seconds later.

“Come love, lie down. I’ll get the flannels.” John gently rolled Sherlock back to the sheets. A smile was plastered across pink cheeks, eyes pulled tightly shut and hands locked in his own hair. John watched Sherlock’s chest rise and fall as his breath began to settle. If there were a dictionary image for _blissfully fucked out_ , this would be it.

Nipping off to dump the melted ice bucket and grab new damp flannels, John caught himself humming. He paused to look around 221B and appraise just how much they had both been through this past year. _Worth every bit_ he decided, humming softly back to the bedroom with a puppy on his heels.

By the time John had cooled his lover down and wiped him clean, the taller man had passed out from a combination of heat exhaustion and sore muscles. Setting a fan before the cool night air, John settled beside the snoring beauty and called Andy up into the bed to lie between them.

“Come here you furry menace.” The dog lapped at his outstretched hand, settling a curious head on John’s lap. “I suppose I should thank you,” he laughed. A tiny yip and tail wag was all the confirmation John needed. The man he married was a bloody genius.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who stayed for the ride. Thank you for your constant feedback and advice. And thank you for enjoying S3 Sherlock with me as well. WE CAN MAKE IT THROUGH THIS HIATUS TOO!
> 
> Timegap fics and related stories will now be posted to the [221Behave](http://archiveofourown.org/series/67795) series.


End file.
